


of mute swans and nests

by steponthegaslys



Series: of mute swans and nests [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicide, they're not all dancers but they all work in a way linked to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 82,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25537690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steponthegaslys/pseuds/steponthegaslys
Summary: Pierre Gasly has been at the Royal Ballet for 4 years now, and is gradually working his way up the ranks. The arrival of a mystery monegasque dancer might just wipe his plans out of the water.
Relationships: Alexander Albon/George Russell, Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen, Kimi Räikkönen/Sebastian Vettel, Lewis Hamilton/Nico Rosberg, Nicholas Latifi/Lance Stroll, Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Series: of mute swans and nests [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084739
Comments: 300
Kudos: 290





	1. Chapter 1

“Thank god this run is nearly over,” sighed George with relief as they stood at the side of the stage, ready to run on for their parts in the apotheosis. 

“One more dance. Although maybe they’ll want an encore of puss in boots,” teased Pierre, although he really had to agree. 

Sleeping Beauty was a masterpiece, that was for sure. But this production had been tiring, and Pierre could curse Petipa for deciding that technical challenge was the name of the game. And he could also curse Toto Wolff for deciding that they needed three whole months of the damn thing.

He supposed he wasn’t the one stuck dancing with a fake tail. He’d lucked out being cast as Bluebird - blue eyeshadow was about the worst of it. And Esteban had been stuck taking the honour of wearing the wolf costume, which amused him to no end. 

A few more cabrioles and pas de bourees, and he’d be done. Sure, he was only having a week off before starting performances of Romeo and Juliet, and George was having less than that, but at least it was _something_. 

He ran on stage with Caterina at their cue, giving his all for his last showing in this role - he was the last man on stage before Lewis Hamilton came on as the Prince after all, he couldn’t get shabby now - and was pretty sure that Max was trying to blind him with the lighting, and then sweet, sweet relief came as all they had to do was bow in time to the music.

He could feel his heart thrumming through his chest as the curtain closed - they’d done it. After months of sweat, and injuries, and he grinned over at George before the curtain reopened. He could see Daniil beaming with pride at the piano in the orchestra pit as they led the applause for the musicians - it was the first time he’d been lead pianist since he’d moved to the UK, and Pierre gave him a big grin. 

* * *

“Don’t fuck up the costumes,” groaned Alex, watching Pierre and George undress with his head in his hands. “That’s honiton fucking lace, Pierre!”

  
“It’s scratchy lace,” said Pierre, though he slowed down with trying to undo the back of the shirt. “You might want to help George get his off, he’ll throw the tail through the window if you’re not careful.”

“I’ve told him I’ll rip his dick off if he does. Who’s driving you home?” said Alex, giving George a warning look.

“I hope its Dany, for your sake Pierre. Max has way too much fun behind the wheel,” said George, laughing.

“If you weren’t going to go fuck your boyfriend, it could be you. Maybe it should be you, that way I don’t have to hear about your sex life in company class,” Pierre teased, looking at Alex. 

“He doesn’t,” said Alex, before turning a glare on George. “You better fucking not have.”

“He doesn’t. Unless he hears the girls in the corps talking about how they can’t wait for a fitting with you,” smirked Pierre.

“Hey, dickhead,” said Max as he opened the door. “We’re leaving in ten. Better get out before those two start fucking on the dressing table.”

“Untie the back of this for me and we’re gone,” said Pierre, and after a glance at the way George and Alex were looking at each other, Max didn’t bother arguing, instead just helping him out of the costume.

Once he was back in comfortable clothes, Pierre stepped out into the night air with Max and Dany, sneaking through a back door. The stage door wasn’t worth the stress of dealing with the theatre goers clamouring for a bit of attention from Lewis and ready to shove programmes at him. Pierre had seen them wait for two hours, once. 

“Blessed,” joked Max as they saw one girl barging into another to try and get to the front of the barriers. Pierre laughed, shaking his head. Security would have to deal with that one.

“Where did you park? I’m tired, Maxy,” said Pierre, glancing over at the dutchman knowingly.

“Three streets away. And stop eyeing Max up for piggybacks. You know he’ll just complain all night about giving you one,” said Daniil, striding ahead of them.

“Alex would give me one,” said Pierre, shrugging. “And I bet he’d be faster at it than Max would.”

“Alex would tell you to fuck off, and he’s slow as shit,” said Max. 

“Still faster than you,” mused Pierre, face breaking into a grin as he saw the competitive cogs inside Max’s head whirring. And once Max offered his back up, he jumped on, laughing as the dutchman carried him to the car as fast as he could.

* * *

The week off had been bliss. 

The flat he, Max, Alex, and Daniil shared was usually full of noise, of arguments, of mess. But the three of them still had work, and that meant that Pierre had the flat to himself for the first time in _ages_.

Not that he’d done anything in particular. Most of it had been having naps on the couch, eating a ridiculous amount of carbs, and facetiming family after his morning workouts, but it had been bliss. 

The four of them were a bit of an unlikely friendship. They all worked for the Royal Opera House, sure, but the stories of them meeting were still unlikely enough that they got gasps when they told people on nights out.

Pierre had been there the longest. He’d made waves when he’d graduated from the Paris Opera Ballet School, a Prix de Lausanne win under his belt, and decided he’d rather go to the Royal Ballet rather than the Opera. He was young, and knew he needed to explore the world, and that there were exciting opportunities in Britain that Paris couldn’t really offer him, not with the huge amount of male dancers that they’d produced in the past few years.

He’d met Dany not long after he’d come over from Russia. Dany had been at a rehearsal of Mayerling, when Pierre was still in the corps, and Pierre had misjudged a jump and gone way further forward than he’d meant to - right into the orchestra pit. Somehow Dany had still wanted to live with him when he’d been looking for an apartment anyway.

Max had dropped a lighting rig on him. Then told him that he shouldn’t have been stood under that light, and had ignored all argument otherwise. Max had apologised in his own way by making sure Pierre’s lighting was just a little bit brighter than everyone else’s during the performance of La Bayadere that had got him promoted though, and they’d gradually become friends. 

They’d been looking for a new apartment when they’d met Alex. Well really, Pierre had been looking for his foam roller backstage at Swan Lake, and he’d found George fucking Alex in their shared dressing room, and George had simply said, “Oh yeah, you were looking for another flatmate for the four bed place you were looking for, right? Alex needs somewhere to stay.” And so Alex had joined their group, and Pierre suddenly got costumes which were a teeny bit more heavily decorated than the same role in other casts.

And that was them. They’d been in this apartment for two years now, had been able to travel the world through ballet tours (although they weren’t sure how they’d survived Max’s driving through Belgium and the Netherlands, or the night out in Moscow that Dany had taken them on), and were enjoying their lives. They made a decent living, enough for an apartment that this time didn’t have mould in that had left him and Max and Dany coughing for months after they’d moved out, and enough to go on holiday, and enough to enjoy being young twenty somethings in London.

“Pierre?” called Max as he stomped through the front door, Dany and Alex trailing after him. “You go back to work tomorrow, right?”

“Hm?” asked Pierre, looking up from where he’d been dozing on the couch under a blanket that Alex had crocheted during a long plane ride to Australia. “Yeah. I’ve got company class at 10.”

“Right,” said Alex, nudging his legs to get him to make room for him to sit down, as Max went and grabbed beers out of the fridge for them all and Dany slumped down in the armchair in the corner of the room. “There’s been rumours.”

“About what?” asked Pierre, looking at him suspiciously. 

“Apparently they’re thinking about staging something risky. They pulled Lewis in about it today, and someone said they were figuring out when all the male first soloists - including you - were back in to pull you in to talk to you about it,” said Max. “Which means we all keep getting asked what it is, dickhead.”

“So you need to find out for us tomorrow, Pear. And then we can feel very superior about it all,” said Alex, with a nod. “And I can get dibs on designing something that doesn’t have a fucking tail.”

“It’ll be Cat In The Hat now you’ve said that,” Daniil warned. “Don’t do that to me. I want Tchaikovsky.”

“Okay,” said Pierre, blinking slowly as he thought. Toto always kept his cards close to his chest when it came to upcoming productions, so he was pretty sure he hadn’t missed any dropped hints. “If I find out, I’ll text you.” 

“You wont text us. You’ll come and find us, you little shit,” said Alex, poking his calf muscle. “And _don’t_ tell me to ask George. You know he’s awful with details.”

“That’s on him, not me,” grinned Pierre. “Fine. I’ll tell you if I get called in, then you can text me where the fuck you are. And Max, I want more direct instructions than ‘in lighting hell’.”

“That’s where I always am though,” shrugged Max, downing his beer.  
Company class had been normal enough, and really, Pierre had enjoyed getting back to it.

  
The time off had made given his body time to rest and recover from the gruelling schedule he’d been on, and he’d noticed how _good_ everything had felt straight from warming up. He’d lost a tiny bit of flexibility over the past week, but nothing that he wouldn’t gain back in the same amount of time. Jumps felt stronger, his feet felt more precise, and he knew that he was going to be in good form tonight's performance.

They’d spent an hour or two rehearsing as an ensemble on the stage, doing last minute changes to blocking. Max had been up in the rafters, ‘accidentally’ flashing lights on him on occasion, and whenever he walked past the orchestra pit Dany had given him a nudge, mouthing, “Have you heard anything?” and he was sure Alex was going to stick him with one of the pins he was using to adjust Giada’s costume for tonight if he went too close.

He didn’t hear anything all morning though, and he’d gone to private rehearsal without anything to tell. He was Paris tonight, to Lewis’ Romeo and Giada was obviously panicking about her debut as Juliet tonight, and so they’d all been hauled into rehearsal of the Act 1 pas de deux for a last minute run through.

He was into the backwards walk with arabesques section when Horner had slipped into the room, three men trailing after him. One was older, with two younger, dark haired men following after him, and out of the corner of his eye Pierre could see that they were holding hands.

“Ah yes, this is our cast for tonight, Mr Stroll,” Christian was telling the older man, leading them to stand in the corner tonight. “You’ve seen Lewis before of course, this is Giada, who’s just come from Princess Grace in Monaco last year, and Pierre who -“

“He was the one that caused rather the storm in France, didn’t he?” grinned the older man, which Pierre had to do his best to keep a straight face at. 

“And hold her hands a little tighter Pierre, you’re supposed to want to kiss them,” said Romain from the front, corrections quiet and calm as always. 

“He is,” agreed Horner, watching them both. 

“He won Lausanne,” murmured one of the younger men, which Pierre was pretty shocked to hear, because when he’d won Lausanne he’d been a skinny 16 year old with poor english and dyed blonde highlights, and it was strange anyone would recognise him from then. He wasn’t even sure the videos on youtube were in HD. “The year before Leclerc did.”

“I mustn’t have been with you that year, Lance,” smiled the other younger man as he watched. 

“And look up before you look down at him, Giada,” called Suzie from the front, and he could feel Giada tense at the correction before doing as she’d said. He let go of her on cue, leaving her to walk to a masked Lewis. 

“Pierre?” called Christian. “Toto’s asked me to let you know he wants to see you before you go on your lunch.”

Well shit. Maybe there was something to the rumour mill after all. 

* * *

“I’m not sure if you’d already heard,” said Toto, adjusting something on his desk as Pierre sat across the desk from him. “We’ve got a new sponsor. They’d like us to try something a little different to our usual repertoire.”

“Err, no. I hadn’t heard about that,” said Pierre, shifting nervously in his chair.

“Did you meet Lawrence Stroll and his son today? They were taking a tour, and Christian had said he would be seeing you?”

“Oh,” said Pierre, realisation dawning. “That’s who those people were? I wouldn’t say met, really, they just watched some of rehearsal.”

“Yes,” said Toto patiently, and Pierre couldn’t help but think Mattia would have chewed him out for not knowing the name of some unknown sponsor were he still here. He was glad Toto had taken the top job. “They want us to try a different work. Once that needs to be treated with the utmost sensitivity from all our performers.”

“Okay?” said Pierre, furrowing his eyebrows. He knew he wasn’t the brightest, but he really couldn’t see what exactly Toto was getting at.

“We need to know if you would be opposed to performing a pas de deux with another man. With a romantic context.”

And Pierre couldn’t help but burst out laughing, and he could see Toto becoming just as confused as he’d been only a moment ago. “Oh god. No, that’s fine. I’m bisexual, I’m not going to start kicking off because it ‘looks gay’.”

“Right,” said Toto, letting out a sigh of relief. “You’re free to go then.”

* * *

“So he asked if I’d be upset at dancing with a guy. He clearly doesn’t know I’m part of the gayest flat in London,” laughed Pierre, stuffing a forkful of salad into his mouth.

“Fucking hell,” laughed Max. “Put a straight man into the arts and this is what you get.”

“So I told him I’m bi, and not to worry. And then he sent me on my way,” said Pierre, nodding.

“You didn’t ask him what exactly he’s staging?” asked Alex, sighing. 

“No. Have you met Toto?” said Pierre, raising an eyebrow at him. “He can kill with a single look, I’m sure of it. I doubt even Lewis has asked.”

“I’m sure he’s not that bad. Suzie seems very nice,” said Daniil, from where he was holding a spotlight for Max to adjust.

“Trust me. Go and ask if you can put Juliet in black, Alex. You’ll see,” said Pierre, shrugging. 

“So what ballets do you know with gay shit in?” asked Max as he worked. “Surely you’ve got to know some.”

“There’s not that many. Matthew Bourne does gay versions of ballets,” said Pierre, thinking. “He did Swan Lake. And he did Romeo and Juliet. And there’s some modern things, I think.”

“So Dany is either going to get to live his Tchaikovsky dreams, or want to die while playing,” said Alex. 

“Sounds like it,” nodded Daniil. “Lets hope for the former.”

“At least this means they’re definitely eyeing you up for a good role, hmm? Maybe Lewis will say he’s homophobic and you’ll end up as the lead,” said Max.

“You can’t keep being mean about Lewis,” scolded Pierre. “The man is a genius. And he’s gay anyway.”

“He might not want to dance with any man but Nico. Blessed,” snorted Alex. “Where is Nico now, anyway? Still in the US?”

“I don’t know. We don’t really talk,” said Pierre.

“That’s right. Pierre just looks at him like he hung the moon and Lewis thinks he’s strange for doing so,” teased Daniil. 

“Hey,” said Pierre, frowning up at him. “Maybe he did hang the moon. He’s achieved enough.”

“No, I hung the fucking moon. Literally about half an hour ago,” said Max. “Lando’s painted a rocket ship on the back of it and everything.”

“You two clearly have way too much fun at work. How has Kimi not killed you yet?” asked Alex.

“He’s old and can’t catch us,” grinned Max, as there was a shout of, “I’m not fucking old, Verstappen!”


	2. Chapter 2

The performance went well, in Pierre’s eyes. There were a few first night kinks to work out, but there were always going to be. 

The first two acts had flown by, and before he knew it, they were ready for act three. He could feel adrenaline coursing through him, a nervous energy rushing through to his toes as he ran to his place next to Giada as Juliet in her tomb. 

He’d milked the death of Paris for all it was worth, the stage floor cool on his skin as he lay ‘dead’ for Lewis and Giada’s final pas de deux and death scenes. He could hear the gasps from the front row as Lewis effortlessly threw Giada around, making her limp body ‘dance’, and he knew he’d need to review the theatre footage, try to work out how to do what Lewis was doing ready for his debut as Romeo next week.

It wasn’t the first time he’d played Romeo, he’d actually been the understudy to Nico Rosberg two years ago and been hauled out unexpectedly following his ankle injury in Japan, but it was going to be the first time he’d had his name on the program, the first time people had bought tickets knowing it was going to be him. 

He needed to figure out how to do what Lewis was doing. They’d been trained in different styles, but he needed to work some of Lewis’ into his own.

Lewis was homegrown, had trained at the Royal Ballet School, had joined the company (and had a stint in the US along the way that nobody talked about) and had become their star. He was adored - the fans clamouring at the stage door were proof enough. Meanwhile Pierre’s training was classically french, being accepted to the Paris Opera Ballet School at age 10, and training there until he was 18. They’d both won the Prix de Lausanne along the way (much to his family’s relief, because years of boarding fees added up) and so the Royal Ballet had taken a chance on him, freshly graduated and not yet fully formed by the stage of the Palais Garnier.

When the curtain fell, and it was time to get up, he could almost see a glow around Lewis, one that had drawn the audience in. The applause was rapturous, almost deafeningly loud, and Pierre knew he needed to learn how to get the same.

* * *

Pierre was the only one out in the morning, everyone else seemingly having landed on a day off. He took the opportunity to walk to work, setting out early with a piece of toast in hand and some protein bars and fruit in his bag.

London was in so many ways both better and worse than he’d expected when he’d first moved to the UK.

At night, the city almost seemed to glitter. There were constantly things to do - new places to eat, new places to see, things to do almost 24/7, it was alive, and exciting, and he thought he might never get bored of it. 

  
In the day though, some of the issues became a bit clearer. On his 30 minute walk to work, he’d been asked for money by multiple people, had someone barge into him in their rush towards a tube station, got stuck behind people walking 5 astride taking pictures of the red phone boxes and buses that were so ubiquitous here. 

He supposed less people smoked on the street here than back in Rouen though, so that was an advantage. Plus Covent Garden was really fucking pretty.

The Opera House was beautiful, in a way he couldn’t appreciate as often as he’d like with how rushed he and the others often were in the morning between trying to coordinate a car journey. Their drive to work would come the other way around, so they wouldn’t see the impressive front of it, the glittering windows and large white pillars. 

It was beautiful though, and he took in the sight as he patted the toe of the Young Dancer statue opposite - a weird tradition he’d taken on board from the other dancers since he’d moved here; and one that the other boys would thoroughly take the piss out of whenever they saw him do it. He went to the stage door, sliding in his access card, and made his way in to go to the studio.

Company class was a way to get into the right mindset, to concentrate on ironing out wrinkles in technique that formed when you weren’t spending hours each day on pure technique work instead of repertoire. He always got there early, would eat some breakfast and stretch, let his muscles warm properly. 

“Hello, stranger,” teased George, from where he was working with his theraband in a fairly empty corner. Pierre smiled, making his way over to the englishman. 

He and George had joined at roughly the same time - George as an apprentice due to his young age, Pierre in his first year in the corps, and they’d now ended up at the same level due to a spate of injury meaning quick promotion of the Royal Ballet’s men. George had taken almost the same path as Lewis, and they had a similar flair in how they danced (though casting directors were a bit more comfortable with George’s height than Lewis’ when trying to partner them up) and Pierre just knew George was going to end up as a principal one day.

“Hey,” grinned Pierre, sitting down next to him to start stretching. “Don’t call me stranger, I was on the stage next door literally last night. Where have you been?”

“Busy getting interrogated about whether I’m a homophobe or not,” said George with a smirk.

“How the fuck nobody in senior management has heard you and Alex, I don’t know. You’re not exactly quiet,” laughed Pierre. 

“Pure stealth, mate. Pure fucking stealth,” said George, a large grin on his face. “How are the boys?”

“Asleep, I assume. They’d had a drink when I got in last night, and they weren’t up yet this morning. Don’t know why we didn’t pick a career with less early mornings involved,” said Pierre. “Alex said you were thinking about a nipple piercing.”

“No. He’s thinking about me with a nipple piercing,” said George, rolling his eyes. “Very different things.”

“With all the shit he gives me about not damaging the special extra scratchy lace in the costumes, I don’t think he’s thought that through. Remember when Lewis had one?” hummed Pierre, getting out a protein bar to snack on as he started to stretch out his back.

“Don’t remind me. He nearly took someone’s eye out, didn’t he?” said George, bursting out in a laugh. “Get your right side even with your left. You’re crooked,” he said, poking one side of Pierre’s back.

“Apparently. That might be just a legend though,” said Pierre, trying to correct what George had pointed out. “Like the one about Kimi allegedly fucking Sebastian Vettel when he used to tour.”

“That one’s staying a legend in my head,” said George with a grimace.

* * *

Pierre had always liked adagio the best, though he’d never admit it because everyone else he knew fucking _hated_ adagio. 

There was a way in which an impressive balance, held _just_ for that second longer than someone thought it would be with beautiful epaullment, managed to stun an audience. It was less exhausting than a big grand allegro where nobody managed to see what you were achieving for long enough to properly appreciate it, plus you couldn’t really have impressive jumps until you’d done the work in adagio anyway.

So really, adagio was the fucking best. Even if Pierre’s muscles hated him for it.

He’d even managed to get an approving nod from Romain as he led the class today, which was great, and he felt proud of himself as he moved to the back corner to start allegro.

“Lewis is on fucking fire today,” George murmured to him as they watched the older man go straight into the combination they’d been given, perfectly timed and floor space used entirely. Charlotte and Giada had gone at the same time, but they’d definitely been outpaced by him this round.

“He literally always is. The man is a genius. We know this,” said Pierre, sighing to him. “The other guys don’t, but we do. It’s advanced shit.”

“Your stupid flatmates and my stupid flatmates are uncultured,” agreed George, nodding. “Shit, we’re next.”

And it had gone well for Pierre, aside from not exactly landing perfect fifths each time, which could be fixed. But he’d heard George’s knee give out and him fall to the floor with a thud on the final balance, which had made him and everyone else wince in sympathy.

  
“Holy fucking shit,” gasped George, as Pierre crouched under his arm to give him support as he limped over to the side. “That’s gone mate. It’s gone.”

“It might not be,” soothed Pierre, standing back to let Romain get to him and look. After a few minutes, and enough background murmuring to last a lifetime, the older man murmured, “Take him to the physiotherapist,” to him, before going back to lead the remaining half an hour of class.

* * *

**royal opera hoes**

**pierre ASSly: can someone pls come pick george up? he’s hurt his knee and i walked today so don’t have my car :(**

**albono: wtf**

**albono: WTF**

**albono: i have literally JUST handed my car in for its MOT**

**albono: tell him i’m sorry :( :( :(**

**light of your lives: i can do it**

**albono: max no**

**light of your lives: max yes**

**baldo: MAX YES**

**сука блять: he’s already got his keys and gone to the car**

**сука блять: when did you change my name to this lando**

**pierre ASSly: oh god**

They’d been expecting Dr Marko when they’d turned up, but the receptionist had whispered to them that he was busy, “medical with that new boy,” and she’d winked and told them they’d be with one of the trainees under him.

“If he’s less creepy than Marko, I’ll take it,” sighed George, hobbling into the exam room and sighing with relief once he was on the couch.

“Who? The physio or the new boy?” joked Pierre, looking through the window back into the corridor interestedly. “They’ve not mentioned a new boy. Plus it’s mid year, so it’s not going to be a new grad.”

“Oi. Give me sympathy instead of trying to get gossip. But also tell me who it is if you see,” said George.

“So you're not totally opposed to me spying, is what you’re saying,” said Pierre. “Your physio is fit.”

“Is he?” asked George, as Pierre moved to go and sit at the other side of the small room. “Lets see if we can’t get you some ass, Pierre.”

“Physios are literal evil and can’t put up with us and the stupid shit we do for our art. I can’t believe how much I’m re-educating you on today,” sighed Pierre, shaking his head.

“Hey mate,” smiled the physio as he walked in, and Pierre smirked at George. The man had kind eyes, tanned skin, and soft black curls, oh and also happened to look like he was pure muscle. Definitely much more fun than Dr Marko.

Pierre settled into playing on his phone while George was examined, occasionally looking up at the window to the corridor to see if he could spot whoever ‘the new guy’ was - honestly, he was probably going through all of this to see a new opera singer or something, but he _had_ to.

**max: oi dickhead**

**max: who the fuck is that**

Pierre looked over at the window again, spotting Max sat on one of the benches, obviously having been directed by the receptionist.

**pierre: that’s george**

**max: not fucking george you dick**

**max: we have all seen more of george than we’ve ever needed**

**pierre: new physio**

**max: wow. you should go be a private detective when you’re too old to dance.**

Pierre looked up, giving Max a glare through the window. Max was giving him one straight back.

**pierre: idk he’s australian and is making george scream**

**max: he can make me scream**

**max: find out MORE**

**pierre: fine**

“How long have you been working here? I’ve never seen you before” Pierre asked the physio, resisting the urge to give Max the finger through the window.

“About a month,” smiled the man, as he started to apply some kinesiotape to George’s knee. “Give or take. Moved over from Aus and was due here the next day.”

“I thought you were australian,” nodded Pierre. “I’m still not 100% on accents though. What’s your name?”

“Daniel,” he said, and Pierre hummed and nodded as he watched him finish taping George’s knee. “Try to avoid any weight bearing for a few days, rest and ice and elevation. I think you’ve escaped any real damage and this is all muscular, but you’re going to need another appointment in the next week or so.”

“Right,” sighed George, rubbing his hands over his face. “But this should heal?”

“It should do. Obviously we’ll keep an eye on it,” said Daniel, though his smile wasn’t as wide as it was when he first came in.

“I’ll get Max to help me get you to the car,” Pierre said, getting up and going to open the door. “Max?”

He didn’t think he’d ever see Max be as helpful again. All they’d had to do was get a handsome australian around for him to impress, and he’d be willing to do _anything._ Pierre thought that the bridal carry out of the physio office might still have been a touch too much, but he wasn’t going to say anything.

* * *

“Make sure you’re not under rotating that landing, you need to be ready to go for another leap straight away,” corrected Romain, eyes carefully trained on Pierre as he rehearsed. 

“Ah, Romain!” said Christian as he opened the door, clearly unsurprised that they were in there. “Do you mind if we borrow Pierre for a while?” and Pierre could see from the look on his face that it wasn’t really a question. Romain seemed to have the same feeling, and just nodded and waved him off.

“So Pierre,” said Christian, leading him along the hallways. “I’m going to ask you don’t say anything about what’s going to happen. Who’s in there, what they’re playing, none of it. It may not come to anything.”

“Err,” said Pierre, eyebrows furrowing as he followed, wondering what the fuck exactly was going to be in this rehearsal studio. “Okay then.”

He spotted Carlos at the piano, looking fairly nervous, which Pierre didn’t get. He knew Carlos through Daniil, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen the spaniard look nervous. Then he saw someone filming in the corner, and it made a little more sense.

And then _the_ Sebastian Vettel walked in, and it made _complete_ fucking sense. 

Sebastian had been one of the top ballet dancers for years. Fuck, he was who Pierre had picked for his ballet history project back in school, when Sebastian had become one of the few foreign dancers to dance with the Paris Opera Ballet. After training in his native Germany, he’d done stints in England, in America, had ended up at La Scala eventually, until a hip injury had struck and he’d been left unable to dance any longer.

He’d been choreographing fairly experimental pieces since then - some abstract things in the style of Bejart, a reworking of Coppelia for ABT, rebooted La Esmerelda over in Germany. Pierre hadn’t really kept with it all, he’d done so much.

And here he fucking was, in a room with the only dancer in front of him being Pierre. 

He might die. Literally die. He shot a look at Christian who was smirking, the bastard.

“Ah, Monsieur Gasly,” said Sebastian, making his way over and shaking his hand, and Pierre was sure he was never going to bother washing it again. “I’m glad we could steal you away. We were not so fortunate with Lewis, it seems.”

“Sadly he’s got a prior engagement,” nodded Christian. 

“Oh well. I’m sure I’ll see my old friend soon,” nodded Sebastian. “Pierre, please go stand centre. Start in attitude a terre, right foot forwards.”

Pierre nodded, going to do what he said, trying his best to hide his nervousness. What the actual fuck was going on?

“You’re going to have two counts to do a grand battenment with your left leg into second. I want it high. Bring it down, and put it wrapped around your other ankle, like this,” said Seb, looking at a notebook as he directed him, with small demonstrations where needed. “Big stretch through your back, lots of epaullment to fill the music. Step into fifth on demi, and then sink into a bow, with your right foot back.”

Pierre nodded, trying the steps as he’d said a few times, taking in Sebastian’s corrections and adjustments. The German was fairly hands on with his choreography, it seemed, not afraid to touch him and give him a slight nudge into the position that he wanted, moving his feet to get the right angle.

“Okay, Carlos. Play it for us while Pierre has a try,” said Sebastian, stepping back to watch as Carlos started to play.

Oh _fuck_. Pierre would recognise that intro anywhere.

He was dancing Nikiya’s death from La Baydere.


	3. Chapter 3

**royal opera hoes**

**albono: @pierre ASSly you are hereby DISOWNED by our flat**

**light of your lives: AGREED**

**mad lad russell: what did he do**

**сука блять: i got a text from carlos that he’s been getting choreographed on by sebastian vettel today**

**mad lad russell: omg AGREED then**

**mad lad russell: wtf wtf wtf why is sebaestian here**

**mad lad russell: oh my god he’s going to have walked on the floors at work**

**mad lad russell: i might actually lick them**

**albono: wtf**

**сука блять: carlos also said he got made to play stuff from la bayadere while it was happening**

**light of your lives: isn't that the one where everyone kills each other and the guy trips out on morphine**

**mad lad russell: you know what max? i was gonna argue with you then but then realised… ur right. yes it is**

**light of your lives: :) i often am. i like that one**

**mad lad russell: we haven’t done la bayadere in a while, nice choice toto**

**mad lad russell: i was expecting something more gay though**

**pierre ASSly: omg i literally just got out how the fuck did you all know this already, hold on i’m gonna read up the chat**

**mad lad russell: i have so many questions**

**mad lad russell: first: what does he smell like**

**mad lad russell: second: what was it like to be in the presence of genius**

**albono: wtf**

**light of your lives: ballet boys are gay as shit**

**сука блять: you’ve been mentally planning a marriage out with a physio you met literally 2 hours ago.**

**light of your lives: fuck off**

**pierre ASSly: 1st - he smells EXPENSIVE 2nd - he is such a genius :’( and that with us being acclimatised to lewis and 3rd - considering i was dancing nikiya ??? it’s probably gonna be gayer than you thought**

* * *

Rehearsal with Seb had been exhausting, really. Mentally trying to get his head around what he wanted had been taxing, because not all of the original choreography worked on a man and therefore needed to be changed. He thought he’d done okay though, Sebastian had seemed happy at the end and Christian didn’t seem unhappy, so he counted that as a decent outcome.

There was no fucking way he was walking home though, not with the way his calves were burning. He’d have to ice them when he got back, after the gruelling balances that Sebastian had him doing, muscles taught and stretched in a way male repertoire usually didn’t cause.

So he went through the other exit of the Opera House, the one that backed onto Floral Street, and made his way to Covent Garden tube station. He’d never been a big fan of the tube, and definitely not at rush hour, but it would beat walking two miles home today. 

He could hear George and Alex as he made his way up the stairs to his flat - he wasn’t excited for the moans that would come through his wall at 3am, but at least George was going to be supervised and therefore couldn’t do more than he should - and could smell that someone had been cooking as he opened the door. 

“You get your arse in here now, Pierre Gasly,” called Max from the living room, and Pierre couldn’t help but smile. They were all sat around ready to interrogate him, and he slumped into the spot left for him between Daniil and Max on the couch.

“So. What happened? Before George jizzes his pants,” said Alex.

“I was in with Romain, running Romeo, and Christian came in. Told me to come with him, that I shouldn’t say anything about what goes on because it might not actually go ahead,” said Pierre. 

“And you said yes but knew you were going to spill to us,” said Max, nodding.

  
“Obviously. Carlos just got to it faster,” said Pierre. “And I go in, and Carlos looks like he’s seen a ghost. He’s usually a bit of a prick with how confident he is, isn’t he? So I thought that was weird.”

“Definitely a prick,” agreed George. “Don’t tell Lando.”

“And then I saw they had a camera filming. Which is extra weird,” said Pierre. “And then Sebastian Vettel comes in, and Christian basically says that Lewis was busy, so he’s got me.”

“A far less blessed replacement,” sighed Max. 

“And he starts telling me a combination, and I was kind of like ‘I know this from somewhere, but I also don’t’, and he was correcting me and changing things. And then Carlos starts playing, and I’m like ‘oh shit, it’s Nikiya’s death’ and then realised that I was dancing rather than looking sad in a corner.”

“Don’t know why they’ve not given you a nobel prize yet,” said Alex. “So La Bayadere. We’ve not done that in over a year, right?”

“Right,” said George. “And we think they’re making it gay?”

“I hope so. Can’t wait to dress you all as slutty temple dancers,” grinned Alex. 

“I can’t wait to see how Lando figures out killing you all with a temple,” said Max. 

* * *

Warming up the next morning was lonelier without George there. Pierre had decided to be smart and drive this time, rather than just sit dreading the walk back later tonight, though parking had proved an issue. It was why he preferred carpooling with his flatmates - Max would force a car into pretty much any parking space the car would actually fit in. He knew that Alex and Daniil had the day off, and Max was only in from lunchtime onwards working on Carmen, so he’d have to do it himself.

He’d taken his time, rolling out all the muscles in his legs carefully and taking particular care with stretching out and warming up his arms. He’d watched as the studio had gradually filled, frowning as he realised people had all worn something new, and seemed to be way more intense with warming up than usual.

Had he missed something?

When he saw Sebastian Vettel walk in to sit alongside Christian in the corner, and heard the sharp intakes of breath, he thought maybe he hadn’t. They’d obviously known _something_ was coming, but he seemed to be the only one that knew Sebastian was in London.

Sebastian and Christian murmured between each other, notes being taken in a small black book as they watched them all at the barre. He’d ended up sandwiched between Lewis and Esteban, not exactly the most fun people to be compared to, and while Lewis seemed cool as ice in front of him, he could feel nervousness flooding off Esteban behind him.

He and Esteban had gone to school together, had even been in the same year. They’d gone through the annual competitive examinations, had watched as so many of their classmates had been sent home following assessment, never to return. They’d been close until Lausanne, where they’d both been sent to compete. Right up until it was announced that Pierre was the winner, and Esteban was only top 3, and suddenly Esteban had turned cold.

Esteban had graduated, joined Paris Opera Ballet as a stagiaire, until he’d realised the same thing that Pierre had, that there were too many male dancers in the ranks, swept up en masse following the years where dancers had left for foreign countries, creating a vicious cycle of the exact same problem. He’d gone to Vienna, before joining the Royal Ballet, and he and Pierre had continued to barely speak, but there was a mutual respect there now.

When they moved to the centre, Pierre could see that Sebastian and Christian had been joined by the young couple who’d been following around the man Christian had told him was a sponsor. They seemed to be giving their opinions, Sebastian noting down things after they’d whispered to him. Pierre wondered who they were.

He had to focus though. There was obviously some assessment going on, and he’d been summoned to stand in the front row with Esteban and Lewis. He was secretly glad when Suzie said it was going to be an adagio heavy class, but did a double take as she started instructing the same combination that Sebastian had given him yesterday. He tried his best not to let it show, instead trying to remember the corrections Sebastian had given him and put them into action. 

He’d never be able to emote as heavily as Lewis, and wouldn’t ever grow to have the same perfect proportions that Esteban had, but he had always had good strength and flexibility, and he did his best to put that into the combination. It seemed to work - he could feel four sets of eyes on him from the corner, and he just hoped it was for good reasons. There was something going down about him in that notebook anyway.

He was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one absolutely wiped by the time class was done, and a quick check of his schedule told him he had two hours free before he had anything he had to actually go to.

**pierre: are you up yet?**

**max: yeah**

**max: why**

**pierre: i’m bored :( and tired :( come early and we can chat shit**

**max: why must we acquiesce to your whims**

**max: fine**

**pierre: cool can you also bring food with you because i’m also starving thanks x**

**max: fucker**

* * *

“So when does George have physio again? Next week? I’ve bagged driving him” said Max, handing over a tin foil wrapped bacon sandwich to Pierre. They were sat at the very back of the opera house, tucked away in the lighting control box above the nosebleeds.

“I was going to take the piss, but then you gave me food,” sighed Pierre happily. “You’re gonna regret that if it turns out to be Marko, you know.”

“Go get yourself injured then. Distract him so we can lure Daniel back out,” said Max, ignoring the light slap on the arm that Pierre gave him.

“Don’t even introduce that idea to the gods of theatre. Don’t,” warned Pierre firmly, before taking a bite of his sandwich. “I _will_ cry.”

“You won’t cry while you’re eating bacon. Never have,” said Max, looking through the window. “So is that the new sponsor guy?” he asked, nodding to where Christian was leading someone around.

“No,” said Pierre, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked. The man following Christian was slim, with dark hair and was wearing warm up clothes. And Pierre had never seen him in his life.

  
“Who’s that then? I’ve never seen him before.”

  
“Neither have I. I know he’s dressed like a dancer, but I’ve never seen him. Weird,” he frowned. He doubted most new hires got a personal tour off Christian too. He certainly hadn’t, it had been Franz who usually showed new hires around. Christian only really become known to people once they were out of the corps. 

“Lando better be eavesdropping or we’re disowning him too,” said Max. “Why are you tired anyway? You went to bed at 10.”

“Company class was a beast. And I think we were getting assessed or auditioned or something,” said Pierre. “Sebastian Vettel watched. And the guys who were with the new sponsor watched. And Christian watched. And they were taking notes.”

“Explains it,” said Max. “Do you think you did well?”

“I like to think so. They looked at me,” shrugged Pierre. “Maybe I’ll end up as tree number 3 though. It’s hard to tell.”

“You won’t end up as tree number 3. They pay you too much for that,” said Max, shrugging. 

“You better hope they continue to pay me that, or we’ll have to move somewhere mouldy again,” said Pierre. 

* * *

“Who was the french guy?” asked Lando, catching up with them as they left the opera house. Sitting at the lighting desk had become boring (plus Max had a feeling he’d be dragged into work before he was actually paid to start if he got spotted there) and so they’d gone to try and catch a glimpse of Dan instead.

“Who? Esteban?”

“Not Esteban, dickhead. The one that came around with Horner,” said Lando, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t know him,” shrugged Pierre, looking over as he saw Max about to speak. “And despite what Max says, not all french dancers know each other.”

“You see why I think it. Esteban? French. You knew him. Charlotte? Tax haven french. You knew her,” shrugged Max. 

“She might object to you calling her ‘tax haven french’,” sighed Pierre.

“She’d object, but she’d be wrong,” said Max.

“So you think the new guy was french? Did they say anything else?” asked Pierre.

“He said the stage was bigger than the one back home,” said Lando, shrugging. “And he had a french accent. And he kind of looked french.”

“How do people look french?” sighed Pierre.

“You just do. Trust me,” said Lando. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“We’re going to try and spy on Max’s new crush,” said Pierre. “Since I’ve told him I won’t injure myself to get him back in that office.”

“I deserve a better flatmate really. What’s the point of you having access to all this free physiotherapy if you won’t use it when I see someone fit working there?” asked Max, earning himself a smack on the arm. 

“I’m sure there’s a reason,” said Pierre, leading them over to a bench. “Is here good enough?”

“Yeah, good vantage spot,” nodded Max.

“You’re really making this into a mission,” said Lando, sitting down with them.

“Oh yeah? Mr ‘I might fall off this fake sun I just built because I’m busy looking in the orchestra pit’?” said Max, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up, you prick,” sighed Lando, as they settled back to people watch. 

Covent Garden was bustling with activity at lunchtime - people wanting to visit the bakeries nearby, and take pictures of the landmarks, and visit all the small boutiques dotted around. It was beautiful, and Pierre felt so fucking lucky to work there. 

“Here he is,” said Pierre, nodding as he saw Daniel leave the building and head towards one of the shops. “If you’re going after him, get me some snacks for later?”

Max just shrugged, before getting up to go and follow him. 

“He’s only met this guy once so far, hasn’t he?” laughed Lando. 

“Yeah, and it was for maybe a minute maximum. But you know Max. Passionate,” hummed Pierre. “Plus I think Alex has custody of their shared braincell today.”

* * *

Pierre was glad he spent two hours relaxing rather than going to the gym, or pilates, or conditioning like most other people had.

Because people seemed to have gone _mental_.

Everyone was on edge as he made his way back inside towards the practice studios. He’d spotted Giada crying, a few of the girls around her protectively. Some of the other girls had become snappy at each other for no apparent reason, and Pierre had no clue why.

It came to a head during rehearsal with Charlotte Sine. He’d been rehearsing the tomb scene from Romeo and Juliet with her and Esteban, and they and Romain had been left in stunned silence when she’d burst out crying and ran off as he and Esteban lay playing dead on the floor. 

“I didn’t think it was _that_ convincing,” said Romain after a moment, looking over at the half open door. “Lets have a little break. See if she comes back.”

“Did you drop her or something?” asked Esteban looking over to Pierre.

“Of course I didn’t. In case you didn’t realise, she only started once I was lay on the floor not doing anything,” said Pierre, rolling his eyes. “I’ll go find her if she doesn’t come back.”  
  
He pulled out his phone, shooting off a text.

**royal opera hoes**

**pierre ASSly: why has everyone gone mad today????**


	4. Chapter 4

Things remained frosty at the Royal Ballet over the next few days. Company class was tense, with more and more people showing up to write notes with Sebastian Vettel in the corner. Even Toto had started coming, and it caused more and more tension within the company. 

Charlotte hadn’t come back to the rehearsal she’d left, and had phoned in sick for the remaining few days. Caterina had been drafted in to play Juliet instead, and even though it had been an extremely amicable break up between them and they had danced together many times since, Pierre couldn’t help but feel a little strange at the thought of playing star-crossed lovers with the woman he’d spent two years of his life with.

He’d had more choreography sessions with Sebastian Vettel too, sometimes with other people from management watching, and a camera ever present. It wasn’t always Nikiya’s solos that were being reworked with him - sometimes it was Gamzatti, or even Solor - but the vast majority of them were. It was always kept as much of a secret as possible - he’d be asked to come back at 6pm once the rehearsal studios had emptied, or to come before company class, and the process was leaving him exhausted. 

He felt relieved the day that George was allowed back to work. Mainly because George could finally see that no, he hadn’t been joking.

“What the fuck?” whispered George in a hallway following company class, watching on as Giada argued with another girl. “So it’s been like this the entire time?”

“Yeah. Since the lunchtime Max came early for me,” whispered Pierre.

“You’ve got rehearsal with Cat this afternoon right? Ask her if she knows why.”

* * *

Pierre had known that when Caterina’s spot opposite him in Romeo and Juliet was announced, it’d generate a bit of interest. They’d never made any secret of their relationship when it was going on, and he knew there'd been a few posts on ballet forums about it at the time. When they’d announced the break up, there’d been a few too, though those were mainly determined to find blame for it where really there hadn’t been any.

He hadn’t expected the remaining tickets for his performance to get swallowed up the day of the announcement, and for multiple international critics to announce this was the performance they’d picked to review. Maybe Toto had anticipated that and that was why he’d done it.

Pierre’s time was rapidly being eaten up by rehearsals as a result. Trying to get Cat up to speed, get them both in sync, make sure things were perfect. If he had to hear the balcony scene music one more time, he thought he might scream.

Caterina seemed to be similarly tired of the constant rehearsal and whispers about how “there’s no way they’re not getting back together” from within the corps. Which made it significantly easier to talk between rehearsals, since at least their feelings aligned.

“Honestly. Between that and Giada’s ex potentially coming here,” sighed Cat, bashing a new pair of pointe shoes on the floor to soften them.

“Is this the french guy? I’ve heard about him being shown around,” said Pierre, watching. Fuck, he was glad he didn’t have to do anything to his shoes to get them ready.

“Not french. Monaco,” said Cat. “Apparently he’s why Giada and Charlotte really don’t get along. He dumped Giada for Charlotte, then cheated on Charlotte, and now he’s ending up here where both of them are.”

“So basically, his life is going to be hell whenever he tries to partner. At least there’s some karma,” said Pierre. “Who is this guy anyway?”

“Charles Leclerc. I think he’s got a soloist job, they need to replace Nico since he’s going to be out at least a year.”

Pierre immediately got his phone out to look him up, Cat sidling up to him to look too. There were plenty of articles on him, perhaps more than was suitable for a dancer. There were ones about his poignant win at Prix De Lausanne aged 15, days after his father died, about his debut at just 17 with Les Ballets de Monte Carlo. 

  
Then there were other stories. Clearly the guy was tabloid fodder within the principality, with pictures of him stumbling out of clubs, allegations of him having a cocaine addiction, stories of affairs with the crown princess and supermodels and racecar drivers.

“In fairness, I’d probably want to get away from home if this was what they wrote about me there,” hummed Pierre, flicking to look at pictures instead. “Whether it’s true or not.”

He had to admit, Charles Leclerc was a beautiful looking man. He might have been a dick to Giada and Charlotte, but he could see why they fell for him in the first place.

“So is this why everyone is so wound up?” he asked, setting his phone down. He could look more later, see what he was up against through the magic of youtube.

“Partly. The rest is Sebastian Vettel, who I’m sure you noticed was there,” said Cat, and Pierre decided it was better not to say that he’d more than noticed Seb, that only this morning the man had been teaching him. It would only cause more shit, and he didn’t need that.

* * *

“Shit,” said Max, eyes going wide as he, Daniil, Alex and Pierre sat around the table eating.

“What?” asked Daniil, raising his eyebrows. 

“The gala is next week,” said Max, looking around at them.

“We know,” shrugged Pierre, eating a chicken nugget. Tonight had been Max’s night to cook, and so they’d ended up with McDonalds. He wasn’t complaining.

“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” 

“Well you obviously did know. You just remembered,” said Alex, raising an eyebrow at him. “So what?”

“We need to get suits,” said Max, like it was obvious.

The three others rolled their eyes at each other.

“We have suits. And we have someone who sews for a living who’s said he’s going to tailor them for us on tuesday when we’re all off,” said Daniil, pointing over at Alex. “Why are you worked up about this?”

“I bet lover boy has said he’s going,” smirked Alex, and Pierre could tell from the glare from Max that he was correct. “Our little Maxy has been texting him, haven’t you Max?”

“Fuck off,” groaned Max.

“He must be nice. He’s put up with Max’s texts for how many days now?” asked Pierre, grinning.

“Shut up. You’re living the rom com trope of having to pretend to be in love with your ex,” said Max.

“How’s that going by the way?” asked Alex interestedly.

“It’s fine,” hummed Pierre. “More weird how much of an interest other people have taken in it, really.”

“Yeah, I did hear someone swearing they saw you kiss mid rehearsal,” said Daniil.

“I’m assuming it was Carlos, who was playing for us when we were rehearsing a part with a kiss?” sighed Pierre. 

“It was,” nodded Daniil. 

“Dickhead,” said Alex. “Bet he’s going to be saying Cat looked really shocked and ran away next.”

“Nice knowledge of the choreography there,” grinned Pierre, patting Alex on the back. “I’m very proud.”

“What’s he playing on Monday? I might drop something on him,” said Max. “Make a bulb explode.”

“He’s on the drums. I’m sure Kimi would be very pleased with you,” said Daniil.

“Kimi would find it funny. He’s been in a really good mood the past few days,” shrugged Max. 

“Maybe the rumours about him and Vettel are true,” said Alex. 

“I fucking hope not,” groaned Max. 

* * *

By the time Sunday came, Pierre was exhausted. 

He’d rehearsed some of his longest days on record - in the mornings it was choreography with Sebastian that seemed to change with the wind, each piece being carefully reworked and challenging his brain to try and remember the new parts each time. In the afternoons and well into evenings, it was rehearsals with Caterina, which weren’t going nearly as well as hoped.

Christian had ended up attending a rehearsal, had laid into her and told her that she clearly wasn’t ready, that she needed to _listen_ , and it had taken Franz coming in to settle her nerves enough to continue working. They’d had Toto coming to view it then, which didn’t really help as Pierre had never seen a positive reaction out of him in his life, and true to form he’d stayed pretty impassive throughout. 

On saturday night, she’d called him in tears, begging for him to come around to her house in the evening, to rehearse what they could in the small living room of her flat. He’d done as she asked, narrowly avoiding making her knock out the light fixtures on the ceilings during their lifts.

But it had caught up to him on Sunday, and he felt run down and like he didn’t want to get out of bed all fucking day. He’d seen texts notifications from Cat coming up rapidly as he’d texted his parents, and he’d pointedly ignored them, preferring instead to focus on planning out his parents coming over to watch him perform. He’d not seen them in over 3 months now, not since he’d performed in Sleeping Beauty for the first time, and though it had flown he’d truly missed them. 

He hadn’t told them he was dancing with Cat yet. It’d be too complicated to explain that no, they weren’t getting together again, no, this wasn’t actually something he’d had any say in, no, this wasn’t fate.

His family had liked Cat. They’d _really_ liked her. He had too, initially, but that had dulled down by the end of their relationship, and they’d had to have a sit down and talk about how they’d both felt there was no longer anything there. With nobody at fault, it had been a difficult pill for his parents to swallow. Still, he tucked his phone under his pillow and decided to pretend he hadn’t seen the messages from Cat. He felt a pang of guilt, then remembered that him being exhausted for tomorrow night’s performance would do nobody any good, certainly not her. 

He managed to doze off again, until he heard knocking at the front door, and he was eternally grateful for Max’s lack of a verbal filter when he realised that Cat had actually come to try and find out why he hadn’t replied. He pretended to be asleep as he listened.

“He was out for 8am yesterday, and got back at 11pm. That’s why he’s still asleep,” Alex said, seemingly playing the good cop.

“He’s got other shit to do,” said Max firmly, and there was some murmuring before he heard him reply “Like fuck I’m going waking him up.”

“Listen,” said Alex, voice soothing. “Go home. Get some rest. It’s going to work out far better than rehearsing stupid amounts and getting injured from it.”

Fuck, he loved his flatmates. He was definitely going to be the first one buying rounds once they finished work tomorrow night. 

He heard the front door slam, and then Max came into his room, and clearly saw straight through his faking sleep, since he body slammed his way onto the bed. “Was she that fucking neurotic when you were with her?”

“Towards the end,” said Pierre, rolling over to throw an arm over the younger man. “She’s a dancer. We’re all neurotic in our own way. Part of the deal.”

“In exchange for a tight arse, you’ve got to be a bit fucking mental,” said Max, feeling Pierre’s phone buzz under the pillow and reaching for it. “Send her your apologies for your mean flatmates later,” he said after looking at the notifications. “And tell your dad he still owes me a drink. He promised one.”

“I’m sure he’ll remember,” said Pierre, grinning and setting his phone on the bedside table. 

“So you are awake, you little shit,” said Alex, standing in the doorway. “How come you get a Max cuddle and I don’t?”

“Don’t ask me. He got in the bed without me even having to ask,” grinned Pierre. “Lets not tell Daniel about that.”

* * *

_★★★☆☆ Romeo and Juliet - Star-crossed? Or crossed wires?_

_The opportunity to see two former lovers acting as the most famous fictional lovers in history is not one many could pass up, which led to a full house for the Royal Ballet’s latest production of Romeo and Juliet._

_The production itself is beautiful, with no expense spared on creating beautiful scenery around the stage. Of particular note is the exquisite revamping of Juliet’s mauseleoum, fully lit by candles and feeling every bit as eerie as a tomb should. Costuming has clearly had plenty of thought, with an elegant display shown in the Dance of the Knights._

_Youth was on the side of this production, with the lead roles being danced by two First Soloists, and plenty of the fresher members of the corps out on display. One might think it a large risk to put on a production with no principal in the cast, and it is. However, in one half it seems to have worked out beyond many’s wildest hopes, and in the other half flops._

_Frenchman Pierre Gasly caused a stir when he accepted an offer from the Royal Ballet rather than his parisian alma mater, though this decision seems to have been a stroke of genius with the way he has blossomed. He played an exquisite Romeo, with his heritage showing in his clean lines and footwork, with balances that wowed the audience. His acting too was commendable, with his final pas de deux with a limp Juliet bringing many of those watching to tears. We should all hope that France do not try to steal him back._

_Sadly, he was not matched by Juliet, played by italian Caterina Masetti Zannini, drafted in at last minute to cover Charlotte Sine. Though there was not a single flaw in her technique, the performance was clinical, flat, and she seemed unable to reciprocate, despite many opportunities afforded by her former beau. One could think this due to relationship baggage, were it not for a similar lack of affection with Paris, played by the excellent Esteban Ocon, who trained alongside Gasly and has the same mannered approach. He seemed frustrated by her, and for good reason._

_Overall, we should all pray for the return of the exquisite Charlotte Sine, lest we have to see this Juliet again._

_★★★★☆ Romeo and Juliet - A lovers tragedy indeed_

_…though despite Gasly’s excellent performance, he was let down by a rather limp Juliet. It was difficult to believe that Masetti Zannini was italian, such was the lack of passion she expressed. She seemed defeated right from the off, and not only with Gasly but also with Ocon…_

_★★★★☆ Romeo et Juliette - Une victoire pour la France_

_…nous attendons avec impatience son retour…elle était meilleure quand elle jouait la mort…_


	5. Chapter 5

”These reviews are going to fucking wreck her,” sighed Pierre, reading through the latest assessment of last nights performance on his phone.

“She deserves it. Kimi said she looked dead when she was meant to be alive, and alive when she was meant to be dead,” said Max, as he downed some paracetamol.

“You’re both similarly blunt, aren’t you? Are you sure you’re not his son?” sighed Alex. “At least it finally convinced your parents you’re not getting back together.”

“She knew it. She’d given up by the end,” said Daniil. “Throwing you down the stairs when you were meant to be dead wasn’t the most loving of goodbyes.”

  
“Yeah, but…” sighed Pierre, shaking his head. “I just feel bad about it, you know? Maybe I should have asked for a different partner when Christian said it wasn’t working.”

“Or maybe Toto and Christian should have done their fucking jobs when they came and watched you rehearse. Don’t feel guilty about it,” said Max firmly. “Feel guilty about letting me get drunk as fuck afterwards. I feel like death.”

Really, he knew they were right. Cat had looked lost from the moment he’d stepped out to take her hand on stage, and Esteban had even given him a warning look that this wasn’t going to go well when he’d gone into the wings. She’d fallen down two stairs in the balcony scene, and had been completely in her own head the rest of the way through. In her rush to end the spectacle, after crying over his dead body, she’d dropped his torso down from a sufficient height for there to be an audible bang as he hit the stage, then accidentally kicked him a few stairs as she’d ran to the other side of the stage. He’d had to put in a solid effort to stay looking dead, what with one of the steps digging right into the site of an old back injury.

None of that was his fault, and Max was right about that. Toto and Christian had known about the problems, and they’d still gone ahead with that pairing - they might not have thought it would go quite as bad as it did, but they’d obviously had concerns. The reviews about him were glowing and put the blame entirely on Cat. However, despite no longer being in a relationship, he did still care about her, and knew that the lack of confidence that had caused all of last night’s mistakes wasn’t going to be helped by the reviews being put out. He was suddenly very glad she’d never bothered to learn french. 

“We all feel like death Max, you’re not special,” said Alex, snapping Pierre out of his thoughts. “How long until breakfast delivery comes?”

“Just Eat said twenty past,” said Pierre, continuing to scroll through. Fuck, the reviewers could be brutal. 

“I’m surprised your card didn’t get declined,” said Daniil. “I bet they thought there was fraud going on with how many people you bought drinks last night.”

“Honestly. You insisted on buying your mum a shot,” laughed Alex. “Her face was a picture. I think she thought you were less of a lightweight than you actually are.”

“Fucking hell,” said Pierre, setting his phone down and rubbing his face. “Did _anything_ good happen last night?”

“You danced with Ocon. So no,” grinned Max. “Dunno why we even let you drink.”

“We really shouldn’t any more,” agreed Daniil teasingly. “For your own safety. And for the plumbing. You weren’t doing so great after we dragged you home.”

“Maybe we’ll have Ocon turning up in the mornings now, begging us to wake you up for him. Because it’s an _dance_ _emergency_ ,” laughed Alex. 

“I’m glad you’re all suddenly feeling better,” pouted Pierre. 

* * *

He felt more human after breakfast, a power nap, and some paracetamol. Human enough to take his parents out lunch before he needed to take them to the airport.

“Honestly, baby, I thought I’d taught you to drink wine?” sighed his mum, shaking her head. “Much better for you.”

“I think he’d have been drunker on wine,” laughed his dad. “Besides, after that performance, he needed a good drink.”

“Have you not thought about coming back home yet, Pierrot?” asked his mum, and Pierre knew he was going to have to disappoint her.

“I like it here maman,” he said. “And the job is better. More chance of a promotion, more performances.” 

“It’s a short career, Pascale. I’m sure he’ll be home one day, but he needs to earn his money while he’s young.” God, he was glad his dad was on the same page. 

“He’s my youngest. You can’t judge me for wishing he would come home,” his mother pouted, though she seemed to finally be resigned to a move back to France not being back on the cards.

“I know Maman, one day,” nodded Pierre. His hangover was definitely starting to creep back now, shit.

A young teenage boy coming to their table provided ample distraction though. “Pierre Gasly?” he asked tentatively. “From the ballet?”

“Hi, yes, that’s me,” said Pierre, snapping back into English. He could see out of the corner of his eye that his mum was grinning like the cheshire cat as the boy asked him to sign his program from the night before, and took a quick picture with him.

“Maybe England is okay for you after all,” she said fondly once he went away.

“Maybe,” he agreed, eyes following the boy over to his table. He made up a group of four, and lurking in the corner was Charles Leclerc himself.

He immediately looked away, settling into listening to his mum’s ramblings on whatever his brothers had been up to lately instead.

* * *

Pierre had never seen Max Verstappen worked up about clothes in his entire life. If it wasn’t for the fact they shared a flat, he’d have thought his wardrobe consisted solely of jeans, various shirts from sports teams he watched, and freebies he got from when the company when on tours.

And caps. Way too many fucking caps to count.

“Does this look good though? You don’t think I need to go get a new one?” asked Max.

“No,” said Alex, jabbing him with a pin. “You need to stay fucking still.”

“You heard the man,” Daniil warned. 

“Not like it’s his job or anything, you know?” teased Pierre.

“Exactly. So shut your trap, and let me sort it out,” said Alex. 

“You’re really hung up on this guy, aren’t you?” said Daniil.

“Maybe,” said Max absent mindedly. “How many days are you off for now, Pierre?”

“Just tomorrow. Why?” Pierre asked, looking at him suspiciously. 

“I might have volunteered you. For Daniel to figure out how you guys actually stay conditioned and stuff.”

Alex burst out laughing. “So you’ve gone to the guy you fancy and suggested that he go and watch another guy work out? Genuinely don’t know how MI6 haven’t recruited you with that level of intelligence.”

“Well I was thinking I might come too. Do my own thing,” frowned Max. 

“You’ve not been to a gym outside of the first week after new years in the whole time I’ve known you,” said Pierre. 

“Maybe I want to make a change. Get hench.”

“So you’re gonna go with Pierre? Who’s small?” asked Daniil. 

“I’m not small,” huffed Pierre. “You can come if you want Maxy. Fuck these arseholes.”

“That’s the spirit,” grinned Max. “Knew I could count on you.”

* * *

“I feel used,” sighed Pierre from his spot in the back of Max’s car.

“So do I,” said Alex, peering at the time on the dashboard. “It’s 6 am. Dunno if this guy is for you.”

“Why do you feel used? You decided you were coming because George said he would,” said Pierre, reaching forwards to flick the back of his head.

“He had to get this in before work. He’s very dedicated, you see,” said Max.

“You can drop me off back home before you go to work. I’m going to need a nap,” sighed Pierre.

“He’s not quite as dedicated,” sighed Alex, reaching back to pat Pierre’s knee as they pulled up outside the gym. George was already waiting, looking suitably exhausted, as was Dan, who looked like it was a perfectly normal time to be awake.

“It’s still dark,” whined Pierre, getting out of the car. “I don’t think I’ve ever been at this time.”

“You came that one time you tried to run the alcohol off and you fell asleep in the changing rooms. Stop complaining,” said Max, making his way over to Dan.

“Thank you so much for this guys,” said Dan, clapping Pierre on the shoulder. “I thought there might be more pushback after Max volunteered you.”

“He’ll pay me back for this, I’m sure,” said Pierre, looking over at Max who already looked moon eyed over the australian. This was definitely something to watch then.

True to his word, Max had given his time in the gym a good go, but he ended up sat next to Daniel and Alex, while George and Pierre were quizzed on the intricacies of professional ballet training.

“So they pick you at 11?” said Dan, looking surprised when they both nodded.

“You can be 8 to 11 in Paris. 11 here, right?” said Pierre as he held a plank, looking over at George, who nodded.

“Yeah. Essentially they want to train you young, while you’re still growing,” nodded George. “So they’ll weigh and measure you. Do the same with your parents to see if they think you’re going to grow into the size and shape they want.”

“There’s no point in training you if they don't think you’ll be able to get a job at the end. It’d be a waste of time for everyone,” said Pierre. “They weighed and measured us weekly once we were there, I think? If you didn’t fit the standard they could just get rid of you there and then.”

“Wow,” said Dan, blinking. “That’s kind of fucked. So you can just be shoved out on your arse when you’re 13 or something?”

“Yeah,” said George. “It’s a bit less strict here. Monthly weights and they kicked people out at the same time each year. Still the same kind of energy.”

“You’d just see people go,” said Pierre, shifting to a side plank. “I was in the same year as Esteban, I don’t know if you’ve met him. There were thirty boys when we started and there were 8 by the end. 3 went on to work for the company.”

“What happened to the others?” asked Dan.

“I came here. One to Birmingham, two to Vienna. And the rest are in smaller companies in France. If you graduated, you got a job.”

“Similar ratio in Royal, really. It’s a bit cut throat and competitive,” said George. “Once you’re in the job, you’re fine. Just getting there isn’t the nicest process.”

“Yeah. Once you have a job, it’s easy to keep it,” agreed Pierre. “To get there though you have to get lucky. Grow right, have the metabolism they want when puberty is over, not really get any serious injuries. Hard work won’t guarantee any of that. That all comes down to luck.”

“And that’s why they’re all a bit mental,” finished Max. 

“We love them despite them being mental. They’re great flatmates from being institutionalised like that since they were kids,” said Alex

“Every cloud,” grinned George, looking over as he saw someone come in. “That the new guy, Pierre?”

Pierre looked over as well, spotting a dark haired figure walking over towards the treadmills. “Yeah. That’s him. Has he been coming to any classes yet? Or are they keeping him secret?” he asked, lowering his voice so they wouldn’t be overheard.

“I’ve not seen him, no. Wonder if that’s what they’ll tell us when we’re all really drunk at the gala,” said George. 

“Are these galas a big thing then?” asked Dan.

“Huge,” said Alex. “Everyone gets dressed up, meets all the people who donates money to the opera house, then gets absolutely trashed on free champagne. It’s great.”

“There’s always at least one hook up and we all talk about it for weeks,” said George. “It’s important for morale I reckon. Who was it last time?”

“Esteban and Antonio. I would have thought Tonio would have better taste,” hummed Pierre. 

“Interesting,” said Daniel. “Guess I’ll definitely have to come or I’ll be out of the loop.”

* * *

Normally, galas were really fun. He’d have to chat to a few people, sure, but most of it could be spent dicking around with his friends, drinking all the champagne that he wanted, and just generally embarrassing himself, but doing it all with the people who knew him best.

Since the reviews had come out though people had taken a new interest in him, and he’d been stuck getting tugged from pillar to post by Christian, getting asked the same inane questions over and over. It was two hours in and he hadn’t had a drink yet, which he thought might amount to cruel and unusual punishment. He really regretted not letting Max and Antonio convince him to pre drink.

George, Lando and Antonio had come over to theirs (and Alex had complained about the last minute pinning he’d had to do of Lando’s suit) and he and George had stuck with Lando, deciding that it wouldn’t be a good idea to already be pissed when they were going to be stuck talking to people who were currently financing their careers.

“So were you always interested in ballet?” asked a tipsy woman that Christian had shoved him towards, clearly a donor of some kind. He knew exactly how this conversation was going to go, having had it at least five times tonight.

“No,” he replied, answer well rehearsed by now. “I started when I was 8 because the doctor said I was pigeon toed and it would help. But I liked it after I started.”

“Ah, how interesting! Were any of your family dancers?” she asked, reaching to stroke over his arm. He didn’t get why these people thought they were entitled to touch him.

“No, my parents work in real estate and my brothers all have ‘proper’ jobs. Nobody else dances or ever danced.”

He could see Max and Daniel snogging in a corner at the back of the room, and knew that sadly, the dutchman was too preoccupied to murder him and put him out of his misery. 

“Ah, Pierre,” said Toto as he made his way over. “Do you mind if I borrow you for a moment?”

“Not at all,” he said, grateful for the opportunity to get away. He peeled away from the woman, following Toto through the crowds. He was led towards the grand staircase, over towards an older man who looked like he was one drink away from hitting the wall.

“Pierre, this is Lawrence Stroll,” Toto introduced, and Pierre was grateful that the man went for a handshake instead of butterfly kisses like the woman he’d met earlier. “He’s our newest donor.”

“Ah, so this is Gasly?” asked Lawrence, and Pierre could feel himself being looked over. “You’ve certainly changed since Lausanne!” 

“Well I suppose it’s been a few years,” said Pierre, giving him a smile. Maybe he’d escape after this one, go and try to pry Max off Daniel and get some air. And a drink, since he remained painfully sober.

“You were wonderful then, beautiful feet. My Lance was talking about it for weeks,” smiled Lawrence. “Did you see that, Toto? Or was this when you were over at Stuttgart?”

“I was there,” smiled Toto, which surprised Pierre. He’d doubted the older man had took much interest in anyone’s junior training, really. “An excellent year. Aren’t we lucky to have stolen him away from Paris?”

“Definitely,” laughed Lawrence. “Though I’ll tell you, between us, that Prost doesn’t blame him one bit. So Pierre, I hear you’ve been working with Sebastian?”

“Yeah,” nodded Pierre, trying his best to figure out what’s going on. How the hell did this man know his former school teacher? “He’s amazing.”

“We were so glad when he was available,” said Lawrence. “He was a little reluctant at first, I have to admit, but when I told him that it was going to be my gift for Lance and Nicky’s engagement he gave in. And he was very glad to hear that my Lance wanted to get involved in the direction, he’s known him since he was a child, you see.”

  
“Ah yes,” said Toto, clapping Pierre on the shoulder. “He did mention. I don’t think he’s heard of someone wanting to fund a production of his son’s favourite ballet as a gift before. Nor had any of us before last month!” he laughed.

“Well we’re nothing if not different! Have you met who you’ll be dancing alongside yet, Pierre?” asked Lawrence. 

“I don’t think he was actually aware he’d been cast yet, but I’ll forgive you,” laughed Toto. “But no. I don’t think you’ve met Charles yet, have you Pierre?”

Pierre felt like his head was spinning. “No, I’ve not.”

“Very, very good dancer. He won the following Lausanne, we go every year, and we heard through Sebastian that he was looking for greener pastures,” explained Lawrence. “I’m sure you’ll be a fine pairing, if your Romeo is anything to go by.”

“Thank you,” smiled Pierre, still trying to process the information. He had a feeling that Charles being drafted in and casted over people who’d been with them years would go down like a lead balloon within the company, personally.

“Ah, it’s nearing that time,” said Toto. “We shall have to let Pierre go, Lawrence. We’ve got announcements to make.”

“Lovely to meet you,” smiled Pierre, returning both of their offered handshakes before looking around the second they’d started to walk away. He was finally free, and Christian hadn’t yet seemed to notice.

He could see Lando near the platters of hors d’ouvres, and made a beeline for him. “Where the fuck have you been?” asked the englishman around a mouthful of bruschetta. 

“Chatting to drunk rich people,” said Pierre, plucking a glass of champagne off a tray someone was milling around with. He sighed with relief after he drank it, settling back to people watch with Lando. 

“How rich are we talking? Have you got yourself a sugar mummy or daddy yet?” laughed Lando.

“Rich enough to finance a ballet for their son,” grinned Pierre. “Sadly no. Maybe I should have seized that opportunity. One of them definitely went in for a kiss.”

“Jesus,” laughed Lando. “Speaking of a kiss, have you seen Max and his new guy?”

“I saw them, yeah,” smiled Pierre. “Did George tell you about his scheme with the gym?” 

“You didn’t know I’ve been taking the piss out of him ever since he did it?” Lando grinned.

“Look, the social butterfly is finally back,” laughed Alex as he came over, wrapping an arm around Pierre’s shoulders. “Come to join us common people.”

“I’m humble, you see. Not like your boyfriend,” joked Pierre, nodding over to where he could see George looking like he’d rather be anywhere else as he had an elderly woman in heavy makeup fawn over him. 

“Poor guy,” laughed Lando, watching the woman stroke over George’s side. “She’s barking up the wrong tree there.”

“Funny though,” grinned Alex, getting his phone out to take a picture. 

There was the ting of metal against glass, and once everyone had gone quiet and looked up to the top of the stairs where Toto was stood alongside who he knew now was Lawrence Stroll. 

“First of all I would like to thank you all for coming to our autumn gala,” said Toto, voice ringing out through the hall. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves!”

  
“Not going to lie, it’s much better now I’ve got a drink. How do you do these sober, Lando?” Pierre whispered, ignoring the elbow it earned him to his ribs.

“Thanks to the extremely generous contributions of Mr Stroll who is stood here next to me, I can announce that in Spring, we’ll be staging an innovative new production of La Bayadere.”

“It is good being in the loop, lads,” laughed Alex, as applause and cheers filled the room. “We knew this how many weeks ago?”

“This production will be choreographed by none other than the esteemed Sebastian Vettel, who I’m sure many of you are familiar -“

As Sebastian stepped out from the side room to greet the crowds, the rest of what Toto was saying couldn’t even be heard. Anyone with an interest in ballet fucking _adored_ Vettel, and the german just seemed to laugh while they waited for the applause to die down. 

“What a great reception. He’ll also be assisted in artistic direction by Lawrence Stroll and Nicholas Latifi,” laughed Toto, extending his hand to introduce them as the pair walked out. 

“We’re also very proud to announce that we also have another danseur joining our ranks. Charles Leclerc, formerly of the Monte Carlo Ballet, has been signed as a First Soloist. I’m sure you’ll give him a very warm reception.”

Pierre felt his mouth go dry when he saw Charles step out from the same place they’d been hiding Sebastian. He was dressed to perfection, with his hair perfectly coiffed, straddling the line between structured and textured perfectly. 

“Jesus, he’s fit,” murmured Lando next to him. “I bet he’s not gonna have issues in partnering.”

“He’s already broken up with two of the girls, I wouldn’t count on that Lando,” murmured Pierre quietly. 

Though, Lawrence had said that he’d be dancing with Charles, right? He didn’t think he’d have much issue with it personally, not with him looking like that.

“And with that, I hope you all have a very pleasant remainder of your night,” finished Toto, and with that the noise of the gala started back up again.


	6. Chapter 6

”Pierre,” called George, grabbing a glass of champagne as he finally managed to get away from the donors. “Shit mate, we need a chat.”

“Nice to know you missed me too,” laughed Alex, raising an eyebrow at him. “You got some good gossip then?”

“Would you expect anything less?” asked George, swallowing down his drink. “Fuck, we need to go somewhere more private. I’ve got to tell you this.”

“Balcony,” said Pierre, starting to lead George, Lando and Alex towards the stairs. “Nobody goes up on them.”

“Not since Tonio got caught sucking off Esteban there,” grinned George, following them up. Once they were out into the cool october air, Pierre felt more calm, and they all huddled together in case anybody else decided to come in.

“That woman I was with knows way more than she should. They’ve cast Bayadere, which I guess you probably already knew,” said George.

“Kinda. I was talking to the Stroll guy, the one who’s funding it, and he slipped up and told me I was in it. And so is the new guy,” said Pierre. “Toto was just like ‘I don’t think he knew he’d been cast yet’.”

“See, I got even more than that. You’re gonna dance with Lewis and Charles Leclerc switching as Solor. Apparently they’ve told all the big donors, make sure they won’t peace out and stop funding us over a bit of gay in the arts,” said George. “You’re gonna get touched up by fucking Lewis. Lewis!”

“I swear, he’s all they think about,” groaned Lando. 

“Jesus,” said Pierre, looking at him in shock. “I think I’ve wanked over the thought of dancing with Lewis before, you know?”

“I’m not afraid to admit I have, at least twice,” said George, earning a slap on the arm from Alex. “But congratulations mate!”

“Thanks,” said Pierre, realisation setting in. “Did she say what you were going to be cast as?”

“She said I’m in your cast as something she doesn't remember, then I’m another cast with Ocon. She thinks she’s stuck the tall ones together,” teased George. 

“My apologies that you’ll have to pretend to be in love with him either way,” said Pierre, grinning. “At least we know we’re getting contracts into next year then.”

* * *

Galas were _way_ more fun with alcohol. 

Once they’d gone back into the hall, Pierre had managed to find Max who’d given him a few shots out of his hip flask. His mind had mellowed as the alcohol set in, and he’d let himself be dragged onto the dance floor by Lando and Daniil.

He really loved dancing. There was something about it that felt so freeing - he’d never been the brightest at school, never able to convey what he wanted in an essay, not really articulate. His teachers had understood though, known that words weren’t his best form of communication, that he’d been given dance as a gift to use instead. There was just something music stirred in him and the only way he could express that was dance.

Maybe Monsieur Prost hadn’t exactly thought about Pierre grinding against Daniil Kvyat and Lando Norris when he’d given him that way to explain it, but Pierre still thought it was a good one.

For someone who could play a stupid amount of instruments, Pierre thought he might have the worst rhythm he’d ever seen when it came to dancing. Lando wasn’t much better, really. But they were fun, weren’t currently snogging anyone, and would put up with him, and Pierre _loved_ them for it. 

Max, Daniel, Alex and George joined them soon enough, and Pierre was delighted. Daniel and Max were even drunker than him, and were more than willing to dance with him. Daniel was _fun_ , and bright and was willing to be stupid with him, them both ending up grinding against Max. He’d be good for Max, Pierre thought.

  
His ears pricked up when he heard shouting though, and apparently so did everyone else’s, as some of the chatter died down.

_ “Comment étais-je censé réagir?!” _

_ “Pas comme une pute!” _

_ “T'es un salaud!” _

_ “J'en ai plus rien à foutre! _

_“Ferme ta gueule!”_

“What’s going on?” Alex asked Pierre quietly, as they all stood watching Charles and Charlotte throw insults at each other. “It’s french, right?”

“He’s calling her a bitch, she’s calling him a bastard. There’s nothing actually juicy,” Pierre murmured, sighing as they both stormed off, Charlotte pushing past Esteban.

* * *

“Fucking love all of you,” Max laughed drunkenly as they walked up the stairs to the flat. They’d stopped at a takeaway on their way, and Pierre’s current concern was figuring out how to try and get his keys out of his pocket while also balancing a container of cheesy chips in his other hand. 

“Fuck, can you get them Dany? I can’t figure it out,” Pierre sighed, offering his hip to the Russian who seemed significantly more sober than the rest of them. 

“You could just give me the chips for a minute, you know?” said Daniil, going into his pocket anyway. “Alex, George, stop snogging in the hall. Make out in your room.”

“Happily,” purred Alex, rubbing his hands over George’s sides and rushing in once Daniil had the door open.

“We’re gonna hear sex noises,” sighed Max, sinking down onto couch and tugging Pierre down with him. “I wish I was making sex noises.”

“Dan seems really nice. I like him for you,” Pierre said, leaning into Max and starting to eat his chips. He’d regret it in the morning, but right now nothing seemed better than eating pure carbs and fat and lounging around with Daniil and Max.

“He’s really nice,” sighed Max. “Do you think he’s too nice for me?”

“No,” said Pierre firmly, feeding Max a chip. “You’re a dickhead, but you’re actually nice. So shh.”

“Everyone’s nice,” said Daniil fondly, throwing a blanket over them when moans started to come from the side of the flat Alex’s room was on. “I’m going to go to sleep now though.”

“Love you Dany. You’re the fucking best,” said Max, pointing to Daniil. “Don’t you fucking forget it.”

“I won’t,” laughed Daniil before disappearing off to his room. 

Max sighed, taking the remainder of Pierre’s chips to eat when he was handed them. “You really don’t think he’s too nice? He’s just… I can’t think of a bad point for him. Not one.”

“He’ll have them. He’s trying to impress you though,” said Pierre. “So he’s not going to be upfront with them, you know?”

“Maybe,” said Max. “Do you think he likes me?”

“He had his tongue down your throat literally an hour ago,” said Pierre, shifting to get comfortable and resting his head on Max’s shoulder. “I think he likes you.”

“I hope so,” said Max, sighing. “Are we sleeping here tonight then?”

“Yeah. Then everyone will be forced to come here to see what we actually remember tomorrow,” nodded Pierre. “You know someone will have good stories.”

* * *

Champagne and smuggled vodka wasn’t a good combination for Pierre, if the way he was left heaving over the toilet the next morning was any indication. Once he’d hauled himself out of there, got changed out of last night’s evening wear and got into comfier clothes, he snuck past Max (though realistically, he knew nothing would actually wake Max, he could sleep through anything after a few drinks) and went out onto their tiny balcony. 

The fresh air helped him feel a little more human, and he swallowed down some paracetamol to stop the headache that was forming. When they’d gone viewing flats, it was this tiny balcony that had sold this one to him. He could look down at the streets, watch people go by, remind himself how tiny a part of this whole city he actually was.

London was the first city he’d lived in. Rouen wasn’t that big, and his family had lived away from the centre regardless. Though he’d technically lived in Paris, the school was in the suburb of Nanterre, across the Seine. His flat in London was in Zone 2, a short walk from any type of food he wanted to eat, almost any activity he wanted to do, and it felt electric in a way Nanterre and Rouen never had.

The door to the balcony slid open, and he looked up to see Alex, looking slightly worse for wear but smiling anyway. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just thought fresh air would be better,” he replied, as Alex sat in the other chair and put his feet up on the railing. “If I remember right, you had a good night,” he teased. 

“Can’t believe Max was in the living room while we were at it,” groaned Alex.

“Me and Max both were. I just fell asleep quickly,” laughed Pierre. “Dany threw a blanket over us and got the fuck out of there.”

“Dany has always been smarter than both of you. This just proves it.”

“I’ll give you that one. But Dany’s also smarter than you too.”

“He is, I won’t even argue that,” laughed Alex. 

“Good. There’s no point,” grinned Pierre, shifting to stick his feet on the railing as well. “Why didn’t we come out here more in summer?”

“Because it pissed it down all summer,” said Alex. “I know you like rain, but personally? Not a fan.”

“It did, now I think about it,” said Pierre. “I thought England was meant to rain all the time. It turns out it rains less than Rouen.”

“You’re from the closest bit of France to us. It’s less than a 5 hour drive. You can’t really have thought it’d be that different?” said Alex, raising an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me you moved here because of the rain.”

“Maybe a little bit,” laughed Pierre, grinning at him. 

“Jesus,” groaned Alex. “I’m telling Max that. He can have a chance to be super proud of Holland for actually being really rainy. Then I can watch him also have to convince you not to go there, since he doesn’t want to.”

* * *

Once everyone was awake, and Lando and Antonio had driven over with McDonalds breakfast for everyone, they gathered in the living room for their time honoured tradition of sticking their heads together and figuring out what had actually happened at last nights gala.

“To start, where the fuck were you for most of last night?” asked Max, taking a bite out of his McMuffin and pointing to Antonio.

“Busy,” said Antonio, grinning.

“With Esteban again?” groaned George. “Please no.”

“For a while,” hummed Antonio. “And then Giuliano.”

“What is it with you and french people?” asked Lando with a sigh. “Who are you going to go for next, Grosjean?”

“It’s the moans,” teased Antonio. “ _Ugh, mon dieu!_ ”

“Stop defiling my language,” said Pierre, balling up one of the wrappers and throwing it at Antonio’s head, then balling another up and doing the same to Lando. “Romain is swiss. And I have to look him in the eye tomorrow. So shh.”

“So, Italian-French relations aside, what else did we find out?” asked Alex. 

“That Max really likes australian physios,” said Daniil. 

“Shut up,” groaned Max. 

“You do though,” said Alex. “It’s true.”

“How is it true? I like one australian physio. Doesn’t mean I like them all.”

“Fair,” said Alex after a moment. “I’ll let you have that one.”

“Glad that’s settled,” said George. “Pierre’s gonna dance with Lewis Hamilton. And the new guy.”

“You know that in this room, literally nobody but you guys cares about Lewis Hamilton right?” sighed Antonio.

“Not our fault you’re uncultured. But yeah, I am,” said Pierre proudly. “I met the guy funding all of this too.”

“Did you try to pull him?” asked Max.

“No. He was old, not my type, and busy talking about his son’s engagement. The whole ballet is a present for them,” said Pierre. 

“A supportive relationship with his son? Bold,” said Max. 

“That’s sweet though,” said Alex, patting Max’s knee. “Plus it keeps everyone here employed.” 

“Exactly,” said Pierre. “George has to partner Esteban though.”

“A big price to pay,” said Max, sighing. 

“I saw the new guy last night. He was asking about you,” Antonio said, nodding towards Pierre.

“Was he now?” asked George interestedly.

“What did he ask?” asked Pierre.

“He said he’d be with you for something,” said Antonio. “Were you nice or not. Then he asked technical things I didn’t know.”

“I hope you said I’m nice,” said Pierre, giving Antonio a light kick when he grinned and teasingly shook his head.


	7. Chapter 7

Pierre could feel the energy change in the air when Charles Leclerc walked into company class the following Monday.

He’d been warming up next to George, headphones on, but it was like the room had grown colder. When he looked, he could see frosty glares aimed at the Monegasque from multiple women, which probably explained it.

  
Charles seemed unruffled by the negative attention though, going to one of the barres to start warming up.

“Gotta respect that a bit,” George whispered. “Not a single shit given.”

“At least Cat is glaring at someone who’s not me now,” Pierre whispered back. 

Cat hadn’t exactly hidden her dissatisfaction with the reviews from their performance. She seemed to be making it clear to everyone around that she was unhappy with him, turning to give him dirty looks every so often.

But Pierre couldn’t really bring himself to care, which shocked him a bit. He’d thought he was more sensitive than that - when Cat had done this following their break up, it had hurt. Maybe it was because it was more of a surprise then, after such an easy conversation about how neither of them were very in love any more, then the weird turn on him in public.

People had eventually asked him his side, which clearly hadn’t matched with what Cat had told them, and he had texts from her following that conversation to prove he hadn’t been a huge bastard. George had backed him up, and the dust had settled around him.

Maybe he better think carefully about whatever he heard about Charles, now he thought about it.

Pierre couldn’t resist a few peeks across the room when class started. He was pretty sure everyone else was doing the same thing, trying to figure out Charles Leclerc.

He could tell straight away that he wasn’t trained in the French way - he’d assumed he would be, what with Monaco’s position on the Riviera, but there was an attack and fierceness there that wasn’t there in the way he himself had been taught. It wasn't as clean, instead more passionate with the caveat that it was more imperfect.

He had the right lines, which wasn’t really a surprise, everyone here had been handpicked out of auditions as children because they did, but there were certain things he did with them, little flicks and accents that just added _something_.

Charles Leclerc was beautiful.

When they moved to the centre, he could tell that Charles wasn’t one for adage. He clearly preferred jumps, turns, but he had a steely determination on his face as he worked through the exercise. Pierre had to be careful not to stare too much - he’d not been able to tell really, on his mini google stalk of the man, but in the studio lights his eyes were a dark green that Pierre didn’t think he’d ever seen on a human being before. 

He didn’t know eyes even came in that colour.

* * *

“He’s fit. Kill me now,” Pierre groaned, resting his head on the table Alex was working on.

He’d snuck up to the costuming department, after a round of strength work in the company fitness suite didn’t clear his head. Alex was better with these things than Max and Daniil, but it going to Alex was more difficult if he didn’t have a fitting. He’d managed to time it right, sneaking in when Alex’s manager had gone on break. 

“We know,” hummed Alex, carefully stitching jewels onto a bodice. “What? You think you’re the only one with eyes?”

“Well… no. But it’s a different kind of fit now,” Pierre sighed, picking up the next jewel that had been set out in the line and handing it to Alex when he’d finished the first. 

“Why? Because he dances?” asked Alex. “I mean, we already knew that too, but… you know.”

“Shh. Why can’t this be a day that Max has your shared braincell?” sighed Pierre, sitting back up. 

“Because it’s you and Max that share a braincell. I’ve got at least one of my own,” said Alex, humming. 

“I thought I told you shh about two seconds ago,” said Pierre. “Can you not glue those on?”

Alex actually looked offended for a moment. “Glue them? Did they not teach you anything in school?”

“Not about costumes, no. Shocking, I know,” hummed Pierre. 

“Explains why we have to do so many repairs,” said Alex. 

“And you do them because you love us,” nodded Pierre. “Love you too.”

“It’s a labour of bloody love, that’s for sure,” said Alex. “So why is Leclerc being fit such an issue? Not being funny, but he’s someone who understands your job and what it’s like, you’ve got time scheduled with him where you can get to know him, he even speaks french. Really not seeing the issue here.”

“He’s meant to be a dick.”

“People said you were a dick for a while after the Cat thing. Turns out you’re not and people had heard some really shit lies,” said Alex.

“Maybe,” sighed Pierre. Fuck, he was glad he’d come to Alex. He was the perfect medium between Daniil, who was calm but a bit less emotionally available, and Max who was always brimming with emotion, like a pan of boiling water about to bubble over the edge. 

  
“Go for it. See what he’s actually like when you deal with him one on one,” said Alex. “Oh, and by the way? If I ever catch you gluing shit back onto your costumes after it falls off, I will shit in your bed. You’ll know it was me.”

* * *

Now that La Bayadere was no longer top secret, Pierre could actually get his full coaching sessions with Romain in.

“And up, it needs to stay gooey as you land, make the plie melt Esteban…” 

Even if some of them were shared. 

Pierre knew the french style he’d been trained in was something _special_ , something different, something the audiences liked to see. It had made sense why the Royal Ballet had assigned Romain as his coach when he’d first come over, and had him also coach Esteban as well when he’d arrived. They wanted to keep what they could of it in them, and try to learn what had never been written down in any book, instead passed from teacher to student through words and adjustments over the past 300 years. 

Romain Grosjean was swiss born and swiss according to his passport, but had grown up in France, and had trained at the Paris Opera Ballet School. He’d entered the company, had worked his way up to sujet, but then languished there for a few years. By the time he’d left and come to London instead, he’d only had a few years of dancing left in his worn muscles and joints. He still danced occasionally, as a character artist, nothing with intense choreography, more acting and mime.

When he’d first come to England, Pierre had been beyond nervous. He’d given up a spot at a company that was enormously prestigious, where he could work to 40 then be guaranteed a state pension, where actually spoke the language - there’d been no english lessons at school for him, what little he’d known at that point had been picked up from TV. Talking to Romain had made it clear he’d made the right decision though, after hearing tales of what it was like within the company, and how it was essentially like all the worst bits of the school rolled together into one big mess.

Romain just _got_ him, in a lot of ways. The baggage from how he’d been trained, of moving to a different country and feeling so _lost_ despite home being within driving distance, of having to train himself out all the shit mentality that the parisian dance scene stuffed into him until he felt like he might explode. He knew what it was like to decline the position you’d been trained to want for over half your life, to ignore parents and friends and family and society, and choose something else for yourself instead. 

He knew Esteban got those parts of him too, that they were shared, but they were still too close to it all to actually be able to work through any of it. Romain wasn’t, he was a good decade on, well removed with the benefit of hindsight.

They’d have people come and watch them be coached, sometimes. Students and teachers from the Royal Ballet School who wanted to learn more, incorporate elements into their british technique, take the best of it and leave what didn’t suit. Marko would come, ask them what had happened at their auditions when they were just children, how exactly had they been picked? Romain would have to switch into English for either scenario, which felt unnatural when everyone spoke French in the room. 

“Keep the left side of your body held, Pierre, don’t let it tilt! Think about being taller,” warned Romain, and Pierre focused on holding his core as tight as he could. 

He knew he had a rehearsal after this, with Sebastian, that they were going to work on a scene with both Charles and Esteban. He didn’t know which, nor did he know what Esteban had actually been cast as, but he knew he had to keep his brain as sharp as he could, ready to learn whatever they needed to.

Romain knew just how to push him though, leave it so that when class was over and Romain and the pianist left, he and Esteban were left lay on the floor, trying to get their breath back. 

  
Romain might have been a bit of a sadist, really.

His eyes lit up when he saw Daniil come into the room, sheet music in hand, and he dragged himself up off the floor to go sit on the window ledge next to the piano. “What’s this?” he grinned. “I never get to have you play.”

“It was actually meant to be Carlos, but he’s tied up. Suzie is running over with her teaching,” said Daniil, sitting down and laying out the sheet music.

Pierre grinned, getting his phone out and snapping a picture of the russian, sending it to the group chat.

**royal opera hoes**

**pierre ASSly: look who’s with me!!!**

**light of your lives: emotional support russian**

**light of your lives: ready for whenever you have a breakdown over finding out that a fit dancer is both fit and also dances**

**light of your lives: modern day einstein pierre gasly strikes again**

**pierre ASSly: alexander………….**

**baldo: lmao how is this group chat actually free**

He set his phone next to Daniil when he heard the door opening, hopping down off the window ledge in case it was Sebastian. Much to his amusement, he saw Esteban scramble up off the floor, standing stiff straight.

And then relax immediately when he saw it was Charles Leclerc who’d walked in, not a german ballet prodigy. Esteban went straight over to him to introduce himself properly, while Pierre hung back with Daniil. 

“So what are you actually playing?” Pierre asked, peering at the music.

“Act II, scene 35,” said Daniil, pointing to the top of the sheet. 

“Right… which scene is 35?” said Pierre, frowning.

“I really don’t know,” sighed Daniil. “This is just what Carlos shoved at me.”

“Hey,” came a voice from the other side of the room, and Pierre looked over at Charles. “Pierre Gasly, right?”

“Yeah,” said Pierre, ignoring the small shove from Daniil to go closer to him.

“And Esteban Ocon,” said Charles, looking at Esteban.

“Yes,” said Esteban, and Pierre could see that he was starting to look a bit suspicious now. Pierre had earned a few words about himself in gossip forums online when he’d left France, but Esteban wasn’t widely known outside of the french and british ballet diehards, really. That was actually how Esteban preferred it, staying in shadows when he was off the stage.

Charles technically shouldn’t have known who he was. But clearly he did, and he didn’t exactly seem pleased about knowing either of them.

“You both lived with Anthoine, didn’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmaooooo


	8. Chapter 8

Pierre felt like someone had thrown ice down the back of his shirt. 

He could see Esteban clench his hand, willing his face to remain the exact same as it had been only a few minutes before. Pierre could see the effort it took, and he willed his own to do the same. 

He could feel Daniil reach out, put a hand on his back, knew that he was watching this scene warily.

“Yeah. We did,” said Esteban after a moment, and Pierre knew Esteban well enough to tell that he was a few wrong words from bubbling over. He was like Max in that respect, quick to anger and react. 

He was grateful to Daniil in that moment. The older man’s hand felt like it was anchoring him to the ground. Letting him suck his feelings back inside, stuffing them down. He couldn’t have this here, not now.

And he was eternally grateful for Sebastian Vettel, and Nicholas Latifi, and Lance Stroll, who managed to arrive at exactly the right time, taking the fire out of the situation without even knowing that the situation was a thing.

Pierre could occasionally feel Daniil’s eyes on him, when there was no piano while they worked out steps, figured out how to place Esteban and Charles around him as he pretended to die. He was glad it wasn’t a scene where he had to force a smile, at least, his head was too busy whirring. 

“What if he died in Esteban’s arms?” piped up who he guessed was Lance, and Pierre couldn’t think of anything more horrifically fitting, as they were manoeuvred and placed, and as he practiced letting his body go limp and Esteban being forced to catch him, not that anyone but he and Esteban would know that. 

Did Charles know? Was that why he’d asked the question the way he had? He’d looked so accusatory, and if he hadn’t seen the way Esteban had beed ready to flare, he could have convinced himself that it was just his imagination, that he was seeing something that wasn’t there, but it clearly wasn’t. 

It was targeted, and poisonous, and Pierre just wanted to run from it.

He went over to Daniil when the session was done, not saying a word. Esteban came over once he’d gathered his things, murmuring “Je l’emmerde,” and clapping him on the shoulder before leaving. 

Daniil seemed to get he didn’t want to talk, instead just leading him out of the studio and back to the opera house. “You didn’t have anything else scheduled today, right?”

“No,” he said quietly, letting himself be led up to the lighting controls where Max was waiting. 

“Hey,” said Max, tugging him into his side. “You’re gonna sit up here with me, yeah? And tell me how annoying it is when the opera singers spill shit on your stage and make it… sticky? Not sticky? I don’t remember. One of those.”

“When they make it not sticky,” said Pierre, and with Max talking shit, it felt like the functions in his brain were coming back online with the return to his _normal_ life, the one he’d built himself. He could do this, just exhale all the feelings he’d sucked in during the choreography session, let them float away in the air. 

“See? Knew I was right,” said Max, seeming relieved. 

“You said sticky first,” said Pierre, and it felt like his chest was becoming more open, it was getting easier to breathe again. 

“But then I said not sticky. So I was right.”

“There’s no opportunity to be wrong, then?"

“Exactly. It’s me,” grinned Max. “I’m never wrong.”

* * *

Pierre didn't really go and watch many productions at the opera house, and the ones he did were all ballets, or dance, and even then it was mainly because friends were in them.

Maybe he’d have to go to more. He’d never thought of opera as something he’d ever want to watch, but Carmen was in his mother tongue, and was a bit less stuffy than he’d assumed, and he had Max next to him taking the piss out of it right the way through. Kimi had even taken pity on him and thrown him in with the stage team takeaway order.

“I didn’t know this ended in murder,” said Pierre as he watched, raising an eyebrow at Max. “I thought you said this was a comedy?”

“That’s what it says on the brief. I really have no idea what’s going on with the plot, to be honest. I just know she sings and her tits are always two seconds from popping out of that corset. Blame the french, you like to make everything dramatic,” shrugged Max. 

  
“Suppose we do. It’s just our way,” said Pierre, resting his head on Max’s shoulder. “How many times have you done this production now?”

“Feels like a million. Which means Kimi has done at least a billion,” said Max, looking over at the older man.

“It’s probably close,” said Kimi, stretching his arms with a sigh. “Are you okay shutting off all this shit, kid? I’ve got someone to go meet.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can do it,” said Max, nodding. “You made that sound like either a drug deal or a dick appointment though.” 

“It’s one of the two,” said Kimi, getting up. “I’ll see you on Thursday. Don’t forget that you’re on the early.”

“See you then,” said Max, waving Kimi off. “Kimi’s so fucking cool,” he sighed once the older man was gone.

“So which is it? Drugs or dick?” asked Pierre.

“Probably dick. But there’s that bit of uncertainty that makes it more exciting,” said Max.

* * *

Pierre groaned as he woke up to the sound of his phone ringing.

A glance at the red blinking numbers of his alarm clock told him that it was 4am, and although he was used to early mornings, this was a little too early for his tastes. He rolled over, grabbing his phone and answering it. “Yeah?”

“Pierre? It’s Christian,” said the voice at the other end of the phone, and _oh shit_ , he was awake now. “Do you have your passport with you?”

“Yeah,” said Pierre, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. 

“Good. And you’ve got access to a car?”

“Yeah?”

“Right. We need you to go to Amsterdam, there’s been an injury in the touring cast, we need you to do Romeo for two nights while we get a more permanent replacement for them. It’ll be good experience,” he said calmly.

“I… okay?”

“Good. I’ll send you the flight details, pack a bag and get yourself to the airport for 6:30.”

When Christian had hung up, Pierre sat up in bed, rubbing his face. He’d covered a few things before, but he’d usually had a little more notice than performing the day of. At least this was a role he was actively performing, and should knew inside out.

He got up, leaving his room and making his way to Max’s. He let himself in, making sure the door was shut before going to wake him up. “Maxy?”

“What?” groaned Max, rolling over and looking at him moodily. He’d never been good at early wake up calls.

“Wanna go to Amsterdam with me? I need to fly out and cover for someone’s injury. Please?”

The grumpy look on Max’s face faded, instantly replaced with a grin. “Fuck it. You’re on.”

* * *

Max _loved_ his home country, and it was plain for anyone to see.

Where any thought of going back to France for more than simple visits tied Pierre’s stomach in knots, the Netherlands was where Max seemed the happiest. He seemed to have a buzz in the air around him, as he dragged Pierre around the city after dumping their bags in the hotel that Christian had booked. They only had a few hours before Pierre would have to go and try to figure out the partnering for tonight, and he thought that it was best to see what he could in them.

“Come on,” said Max, leading him along by the arm down a cobbled street. “You wanted some good pictures for your Instagram, I know where to get them.” 

“So we’re focusing on instagram pictures?” laughed Pierre, letting himself be led. 

“Well we’re focusing on showing you Amsterdam, but I’m tempting you with instagram pictures,” said Max, rolling his eyes. 

Max led him down streets and over bridges, clearly knowing them like the back of his hand. He explained them as they walked - Pierre not really taking in much, since Max was speaking so quickly and so passionately, but knowing he could listen to Max do this _all day_.

“You’re going to have to bring Dan here one day,” smiled Pierre, when Max had finished telling him about the Nine Streets, and about how he’d once bought a bong shaped like a dick there.

“Huh? Why? asked Max, as he led him along past a flower market by the river. “Does he want a dick bong? When did you talk about that?”

“Just because you seem happy being here,” said Pierre. “And I think he’d like to see you talk about all of this stuff.”

“That’s some sappy shit you’re saying there,” said Max, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Well you’re a sappy shit about him when you’re drunk enough,” said Pierre. “And maybe I love love.”

“Shhh!” said Max, turning to him and putting a finger over his lips. “We don’t use the L word, Gasly.”

“I’m sure you will soon,” Pierre said, grinning as Max started to lead him along again.

* * *

Despite the last minute replacement, Pierre thought the performance went well.

He’d been paired with Claire Williams, one of the principals. He knew about Claire, she’d done far more performances back in London when he was in the corps, but by the time he’d become high enough in the ranks to partner a leading lady, she’d decided she’d like to work less often - she’d take the short sharp bursts of work in the form of tours, leaving her plenty of off time with her children. She’d taken on less and less work in recent years, and there were rumours circulating that she was probably going to choose to retire soon.

She’d been amazing. Super easy to work with, knew exactly what to ask him for, and it had been the cleanest, smoothest rehearsal he’d ever been in. No onlooker would have known it was a last minute switch from watching it. Then on stage she’d become a perfect Juliet, much more expected from a woman two decades older than him, and he’d been able to get properly into the role, feed off the energy she was giving him. She’d deserved every flower that had been thrown on the stage for her, and Pierre had felt nothing but pride as he’d been given a large bouquet to pass to her. 

Dancing with Charles was going to be a problem, after he’d mentioned Anthoine. But if Lewis had the energy his fellow principal dancer did, he’d be a breeze.

“She’s incredible, you don’t get it,” said Pierre from the shower, calling through to where Max was lay on the bed. 

“Oh god, she’s the next Lewis. At least George won’t have a crush on her this time,” groaned Max.

She’d even asked him what he’d wanted to do when he got promoted to principal, during the interval and Pierre had resisted the urge to correct her when to a very big if. She’d talked him through the options - did he want to do what Lewis had done, and stay in London as a home base? Did he want to condense his schedule down, just tour now and again like her? Did he want to keep London as a base and then go and take guest performances, which she’d done when her children were too tiny too understand her being gone for more than a few days?

It was something Christian had mentioned before, though in a more interrogatory way. He’d asked whether he had plans of returning to France (“No, and I doubt they’d have me,” had been his reply, and Christian had found it funnier than it had meant to be), or did he want to stay. What did he actually want from his career - but the way he’d said it had felt more like he was a second away from being told off, because he _didn’t know_. He knew what he didn’t want - he didn’t want to go back to being based in France, not while he was dancing and potentially not ever, he didn’t want to end up choreographing since that had never been his thing, and he didn’t want to stray into just doing modern pieces, he liked the tutu ballets too much to leave them. But _didn’t wants_ weren’t very good as an answer.

“Maxy?” said Pierre, coming out with a towel wrapped around his waist. He shoved some boxers on before flopping onto the bed, letting out a sigh. “You know when you’re a proper adult?”

“What do you mean a proper adult?” frowned Max.

“Like… I know we’re adults. But like when we’re the kind of adults who actually cook and then actually do the dishes and don’t leave them ‘to soak’ for 2 weeks until Alex forces us to clean them?”

“Oh. Yeah,” said Max. “What about it?”

“Do you think you’ll want to move back here?” asked Pierre.

He’d been expecting a yes, after the way Max was waxing lyrical about Amsterdam. 

“No,” said Max, after taking a minute to think. “If I left the UK, I’d probably go to Belgium, near my mum. I want kids and I wouldn’t want them anywhere my dad can guilt me into letting him see them.”

Pierre could kick himself. They all knew vague things about Max’s dad, had all had weird messages sent to them on social media when Max had blocked his number. He knew there were a lot of issues there, with Max slipping comments in occasionally, but like Anthoine, it was something they all knew was like a live grenade found when digging up a garden, that you knew not to touch lest it explode.

He didn’t think Alex or Daniil had those - all the drama with Alex’s mum’s past was something he could joke about, she’d come and seen them in the flat a few times and it had been fine; while Daniil would basically just point out Russia’s human rights violations and the fact he was bisexual. Those were more simple, more concrete, and maybe not fully resolved, but mostly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rolling over to wrap an arm around him. Max just shrugged, patting his arm, and Pierre could see him mentally packing away what little he’d let spring out. “Can’t believe you’re talking about kids when you wouldn’t let me say love earlier today.”

“I’m talking about general kids. Not specific kids. You were talking specific,” said Max, shifting to give him a hug back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dw pain is coming :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls check the updated tags !!!

Pierre kind of regretted not accepting the day off Christian had offered him when he and Max returned to England.

When he was performing, he’d felt amazing, the adrenaline from the audience and the stage lights and dancing with someone who’d so completely mastered her craft had masked any tiredness or fatigued muscles. 

Two consecutive performances was heavy going though, and now with the adrenaline gone, his muscles felt fatigued, and his body felt heavy, and he just wanted a nap. He was having to work his brain a little harder, things that should have been second nature required active thought, and it was definitely not the right time for him to be having this kind of day when he could see Charles Leclerc glancing over at him occasionally.

George had obviously been briefed that Charles had upset him, as he made sure to keep swapping sides whenever they had to go to a different corner of the studio, making sure he was there to be a barrier between them at all times. No matter what configuration they had to go in, George was ready to stubbornly stay in the way for him.

He fucking loved his friends. 

By the end of the class, he felt drained, and part of him thought about going and asking Alex for his car keys so he could take a nap in the back once he’d finished class, and coaching, and choreography. At least it was a very front loaded day, so he could sleep in the afternoon, but he thought that if he stopped, he might just end up falling asleep anywhere he could sit for long enough. 

When he walked into the studio and saw Daniel sat in the corner with a notebook, he knew he’d hit the jackpot. Maybe Daniel could sneak him into a physio room and let him nap in there. That’d be a great idea.

“Dan? Why are you here?” he asked curiously, making his way over to the aussie. 

“Dr Marko’s insisting I learn about different ballet styles. He’s gonna be in here in a few minutes,” said Daniel. “How was Amsterdam? Looked like you guys had fun.”

“Really good, actually. I knew I had to drag Max when I got asked, I’m so glad I did because he’s the only reason I didn’t get completely lost, you know?” said Pierre. 

“Can’t believe you're senior enough to be taking a translator on your trips now,” joked Daniel. “When you see him, tell him I’ve found a new bakery. It’s been lonely going on my own.”

“I’ll tell him. I’m glad I didn’t need to use him as a translator though, he’d have just sworn at everyone,” grinned Pierre, looking over as Dr Marko walked in.

“Ah, Pierre,” said Dr Marko, and Pierre couldn’t help but already feel creeped out as the man put a hand on his back. “You’ve met Daniel then? Not for that back injury, I hope?”

“Yes we’ve met,” said Pierre, looking to Daniel. “He knows my flatmate. My back is still fine.”

“Injury to his trapezius when he was… 15, was it Pierre? It flares every now and again,” Marko started telling Daniel, and Pierre couldn’t help but think patient confidentiality wasn’t the man’s priority.

“Err, I’m not really sure about when I did it. Not long after we started doing overhead lifts,” said Pierre, thanking whatever deity was up there when he saw Romain come in. He could escape to the barre now.

“They’re not as injury prone as some as the others you’ve seen. They’re very careful on selection, the french, you’ll see their proportions are exactly the same, even if Esteban is taller,” Marko continued as he walked away, going to warm his feet back up.

“How do they select them for that?” asked Dan. 

“Very strictly, I had a conversation with Prost about it once. He trained both of these two, they were from his final class,” Pierre heard him saying, keeping his eyes on Romain going to give the pianist some briefing. “If they don’t have the right feet, gone. Not enough natural flexibility, gone. Too fat, gone. Too thin, gone. If you can’t force the turnout completely flat, gone. It’s a very good system really, makes sure you can push the child.”

“Who’s child are you pushing?” frowned Esteban as he walked in, going to the same barre as Pierre. 

“Oh Esteban, you’re a joker,” laughed Marko, and Pierre could see Esteban’s giant eye roll in the mirror they were both facing. 

Pierre hadn’t ever liked Dr Marko, really. The man was too touchy feely, for one. As a dancer who had to lift women in weird and wonderful ways, he’d never really had a problem with someone touching him. But Marko had the awful habit of doing it while he talked about them like objects, far too clinical and cold. He also had the horrible talent of a near perfect memory, able to quote medical notes from years ago as though they were right in front of him.

He got why he was employed, he really did - the few times his back had flared up since he’d come to England, Marko had investigated it properly, treated it well, and had him back to work quickly. Flares had become less frequent through the years, and Pierre reluctantly had to give Marko’s weird treatment regimes credit for it.

He just wasn’t the most sympathetic when you were laying crying on a table, worrying that this injury would be the one that would end your career. Sympathy was not a strength of his. 

He could feel Marko’s eyes on him as he followed Romain’s instruction, could hear him telling Dan about the line they were trying to create whenever he bothered to tune into listening to english between the corrections he was receiving in french. Part of him thought that Romain was ramping it up even more than usual, eager to impress, and Pierre knew his legs were going to be fucking dead by the end of this, no doubt about it. 

They were nearing the end of the class when Marko really hit his peak. 

Marko had encouraged Romain, “No, keep going,” when the clock had hit 12, and Sebastian and Lance and Nicholas and _Charles_ had filtered in, leaning against the wall of the studio and watching. 

“We’re lucky to have them, really. Paris usually likes to keep them to themselves,” he heard Marko say, as he and Esteban pushed through burning lungs to keep going on the stupidly difficult allegro combination Romain had pulled out for them. “But these were from Alain Prost’s last class before he retired, so he sent them to Prix De Lausanne to show off a little bit. It’s a big competition, you might have heard of it. Great for talent spotting, and Alain obviously thought it was a good place to show how he’d trained them.”

  
“You’ve mentioned it a few times,” said Daniel.

“So Alain sent three, Pierre, Esteban, and another one… Anthoine, I believe he was called? And they swept the top three. Pierre took the win, but not by much. The gap between them and the people outside the top three though was enormous.”

Pierre saw Charles turning to leave, murmuring something to Sebastian. He honestly wished he could leave too, he’d take going with Charles if it meant getting out of _this_. Fuck, he’d make out with Esteban to get out of this. 

He and Esteban could go back to their normal world, the one where neither of them ever said his name out loud, and despite really speaking, each time that they went to Normandy for Christmas, one of them would send a text to the other with a time to meet at the train station in Rouen, and they’d go and catch the train to Lyon, and go and lay flowers on his grave and cry together, and then stay completely silent on the ride back, returning to another year of not speaking. 

It was something that nobody knew about - not his friends, not Esteban’s friends. Even in France the only people that really knew were his and Esteban’s parents, and Anthoine’s parents, who would then send them Facebook messages saying that the flowers were beautiful and that they hoped they were well.

“I would have liked to take the set, really. But the other one got assessed out of the school the year after the prix. Hung himself after he got the -“

Pierre heard door slam, and Romain raised his hand for them and the pianist to stop, and made his way over to Marko, asking to step outside and have a word.

He sat down to try and finally catch his breath, and could see that Charles was gone, Esteban was already making his way out after Romain, and everyone else in the room just looked shocked. He got up once he could breathe properly again, going to the door as he heard shouting starting up, and to his surprise Sebastian Vettel was only a few steps behind him.

“You’re really trying to say we did nothing?” said Esteban, and Pierre winced. He and Charles were yelling in french, so at least most people couldn’t understand them, but this was all being laid out now, it seemed.

  
He wanted to run away from this, but Vettel was stood behind him, so he couldn’t just disappear into the studio, and Charles and Esteban were blocking the corridor. 

“Why would we do nothing? We’d known him since we were children,” said Esteban, and it was all becoming way too real. “We didn’t _know_.”

“I knew him since we were children too, and he wasn’t someone who would do _that_. You can’t have known him that well if you didn’t see this coming!” 

And fuck, that really hurt. He could feel hurt bubbling up inside him, and Esteban obviously had it too, because he lashed out right back.

“You can’t have been that close. He never mentioned you to us,” said Esteban coolly. “I mean, you knew who we were, so we’ve obviously been mentioned. I’ve never even heard your name before, definitely not from Anthoine.”

  
Pierre hated Charles for doing this, for accusing them of being heartless enough that they’d have seen Anthoine struggling against the tide and not done anything to try and help him. But he was also seeing that awful toxic bit of Esteban come out, the bit that knew how to cut you down with a neurosurgeon’s precision, the bit that wasn’t afraid of pushing the buttons that should have been kept under glass for their own protection, the bit that had been fostered and nurtured and encouraged by the stupid environment they’d grown up in. 

He’d seen this side of Esteban many times before, and maybe he was desensitised to it. He really shouldn’t have been surprised that Charles looked like he’d just been smacked across the face.

“I knew him better than you two bastards did,” shouted Charles. “I’d have noticed!”

“Is there any way you could stop them?” murmured Sebastian from behind him, and Pierre resisted the urge to scream. Who were they expecting him to side with? He knew they didn’t understand what was being said, but surely they had to get that he was involved? People were starting to poke their heads out of the other studios now, because Esteban and Charles were getting to actual, real shouting.

“Marko dragged all this up, ask him. I’m not putting myself into this,” Pierre told him quietly, because to be in the middle was to be vulnerable, and he’d rather watch the fire in front of him grow, and grow, rather than burn himself putting it out. 

“You’d have _noticed_. How fucking smart are you? So _clever_ ,” said Esteban. “So tell me, what was I meant to do? How would you have you have done it then?”

“Shit,” Pierre murmured under his breath, as Daniel came up behind him. He was grateful that they couldn’t understand any of this, because he could tell this was about to take the turn he’d been dreading.

“Go on. You’re taking Anthoine’s stuff down to his parents to help him move out, and you come back to the other guy that you share a room with trying to cut him down because he’s fucking hung himself the second you were both out of the room. Straight after telling you how he’d applied to a conservatoire and got a place and was really happy about it. How would you have done it?” goaded Esteban. 

Pierre felt sick. They’d never put it into words, never _talked_ about what they’d come back to see, how they’d had to try and resuscitate him, how Anthoine’s mother’s screams had rung in his ears for months after it.

Yet here Esteban was _doing_ it.

“Pierre. Go sit down,” said Daniel, squeezing his shoulder. “You’ve gone a bit pale, mate.”

Pierre was grateful for the out, and took it. That argument was only going to descend further, with what Esteban had unleashed, and he didn’t really want to be around for the blowback now he had an option not to be.


	10. Chapter 10

The shouting outside was starting to die down; Pierre heard Nicholas ask whether the person coming down the corridor was Christian and Lance had said yes, so that would put an end to it pretty soon.

Dan was stood over him, texting someone on his phone - probably Max, if he had any sense - while the two canadians stood near the door. The pianist had gone, as had Vettel, though where Pierre wasn’t entirely sure.

He really didn’t want to think about what had just happened. He needed to think about something else until he could go home.

  
“Do you dance?” he asked, looking over to Lance and Nicholas. 

They looked rather surprised he’d spoken to them, as did Dan, who looked up from whatever he was typing on his phone.

“No,” said Lance, making his way over, Nicholas following after him.

“Really?” asked Pierre. “You’re very interested in it for people who don’t. Did you dance when you were little?”

“Nope,” said Lance, as Nicholas shook his head. “Never have.”

“Oh,” said Pierre in surprise. “Because you seem really interested in it. I spoke to your dad at the gala, he said you watched Lausanne and everything?”

“Well yeah. I’ve watched it since I was a little kid,” said Lance. “We go every year.”

“But you never wanted to dance yourself?” asked Pierre, because he just didn’t _get_ that. 

He got bored watching performances himself, he’d rather be dancing alongside the cast, trying to do what they were doing. When they’d been taken to watch ballet performances in school, his feet would be moving over the floor, trying to replicate the footwork as much as he could while remaining in his seat. Most of the other kids had too. They’d even been sent with notebooks, trying to write down what they could learn from what they’d watched, what they needed to work into their own dancing. 

He didn’t think he’d ever watched a ballet for pure enjoyment. He had TV for that.

“Well, I kinda did when I was younger. We moved around a lot though, so it’s something I never started,” explained Lance.

“What if we started now?” grinned Pierre.

Pierre was pretty sure he was a genius, secretly. He’d have to rub it into Max and Alex’s faces later. 

Not only had he got Lance to the barre, he’d also managed to get Nicholas too (though he thought that was probably more Lance’s doing), and he’d managed to convince Dan that the best way to learn about ballet would be to _do_ it. 

He’d talked them through the most basic parts - first, second, and third positions. How to turn out without ruining their knees. How to properly hold the barre. He’d found some music on youtube to play from his phone and had made up a little barre exercise for them - a fun one, he understood the importance of plies but nobody lived for doing plies, and if one exercise was all he was going to get to do with them it wasn’t going to be plies - and he’d taught it to them.

“You have to keep your back straight,” he told Dan, grinning as he moved to adjust him into the right position, then correcting Lance’s arm as he moved away.

He’d even managed to snap a picture of Dan bent over trying to touch his toes, and sent it to Max.

**pierre: i am the great provider x**

**max: err this is great but i must ask… how?????**

He was having fun with it, really. Seeing what it was like to be able to fix the mistakes, guide someone through what he knew so much about. He couldn’t really do that with any other subject, since he usually knew less. The one time he’d not had being the barrier was when he’d tried to help Max improve his french, and really it had just frustrated him. 

This didn’t seem to though.

He heard the door open behind him and glanced at the clock - he was still within the time that had been blocked out for choreography, so it wasn’t going to be anyone kicking them out - so he didn’t stop Dan, Lance and Nicky.

“Teaching?” hummed Sebastian as he walked over. He didn’t seem annoyed that this was how they’d been passing the time though, which Pierre thought was a plus.

“Yeah,” Pierre grinned at him. “We didn’t know how long you would be gone, so…”

“So you decided to teach them. Nice choice,” said Sebastian approvingly. “This is a bit of a mixed exercise you’ve got them doing though, isn’t it?”

“Because plies are boring, so I didn’t make them do them,” shrugged Pierre, and it at least garnered a laugh as the music finished.

“We should probably let them rest,” laughed Sebastian. “You can all go if you want. We don’t have a pianist, so there’s not much we can really do.”

“Pierre,” said Sebastian, once they were alone in the studio. Sebastian had sat on the piano bench,Pierre on the window ledge. 

Pierre knew already that he didn’t want to have this conversation. 

“What was that all about?” asked Sebastian, and for someone who as far as Wikipedia could tell didn’t have any kids, it was impressive how perfectly he’d mastered the ‘disappointed dad’ voice. 

“Dr Marko was in, watching coaching with Romain,” said Pierre, shifting. “He was explaining about different techniques. And brought up some things that kind of… set things off.”

“Between Charles and Esteban,” said Sebastian calmly, and Pierre could kind of see the angle he was coming at this from now.

“Between me, Esteban and Charles. Esteban and Charles were just the ones who reacted,” said Pierre.

“Is this the same reason you weren’t yourself on Friday?”

“Err,” said Pierre, surprised he’d noticed. “Basically. Charles had brought it the same things Marko did when we met him. Then you came in.”

“I got told you were quite upset,” murmured Sebastian.

Pierre furrowed his brows, thinking. “You’re weren’t Kimi’s dick appointment, were you?”

“Is that what he called it?” laughed Sebastian, and Pierre guessed that at least he now knew that the legends were apparently true. “But Pierre. I need to know whether this partnership can ever work. If it can’t, it needs to be changed.”

“I don’t know,” admitted Pierre. “I don’t want to get into specifics. But there’s a situation that happened that Charles doesn’t really understand, and he blames us for it. I don’t know how to get past that.”

“Do you think explaining the situation to him might help?” asked Sebastian patiently.

“I… I kind of think Esteban laid it out clearly to him. Not in the nicest way, but he didn’t lie,” said Pierre. “And it’s something I don’t talk about. That’s why I didn’t get involved. It’s up to him to decide what he does with what he was told.”

“Right,” sighed Sebastian. “If you didn’t get along with him, would you still be able to dance with him?”

“I managed to do Romeo and Juliet with my ex girlfriend that I was with for two years,” said Pierre, shrugging. “I’ve danced with partners I don’t particularly like before. But it’s a two way thing.”

“It is,” agreed Sebastian, looking over when there was a knock on the door. “It seems our rehearsal time is up. Hopefully our next one is more productive.”

Alex was waiting in the corridor for him when he left - Pierre had assumed Max would have been drafted in out of anyone when he’d saw Dan texting, but he guessed Alex actually knew how to get up to the studios with all the sneaking around he’d done with George.

“Are you alright?” asked Alex, when they’d walked far enough away for Sebastian to no longer be in earshot.

“I wish I’d taken Christian up on the day off.”

* * *

_“I think this might be a new beginning, Pierrot. Away from all of the shit,” Anthoine murmured, hugging Pierre tight._

_Assessments had been brutal, as they always were. The whole week they lasted was like an exercise in living life at the sharp end, where pressure was applied consistently on them, like they were trying to force them to make a mistake. This had been the final one before they went into their last year, and also the hardest and most important they’d done. As long as there were no big changes after this one, they were guaranteed to graduate, and would get the chance to be assessed for the Opera._

_Pierre, Esteban, and Anthoine had talked about dancing for the Opera since they’d been children. Since the first day Pierre had arrived at the Opera, had been put into the small bedroom the three of them shared, they’d talked about how they dreamt of performing at the Palais Garnier. Of how getting that job would make all of the shit parts of their training worth it - all the long, long days of dancing, of having teachers shout at them, all the times they’d missed out on production parts, all the times they’d sat in their room and cried because they hadn’t seen their families in months, and when their families didn’t get why they cried down the phone to them, because “You are getting to use the gift you’ve been blessed with, be happy!”, all the years there wasn’t a day where there wasn’t some ache or pain in their body caused by their art, they’d focused on the fact that school was temporary, they were going to be doing the best job in the world._

_They’d all had near misses. After Pierre’s car accident, rehabilitating his back had been slower than anyone would have liked, he'd not been able to start doing the complicated overhead lifts that their harder partnering classes had demanded, and he’d been painfully underprepared by the time assessments had rolled around and gotten a final warning. There’d been a period where Esteban just hadn’t grown, had been given disappointed looks each time they’d weighed and measured them all, where he was the shortest in the class. A growth spurt had come in the nick of time, but there had been plenty of discussions about where did he see his future, since he wasn’t going to grow tall enough to dance?_

_Anthoine’s confidence had been knocked by Lausanne, Pierre knew that. They’d all come in the top three, but the critiques he’d received had been harsh. And the school’s teachers had picked up on them like moths to a flame, using the same exact ones, like their eyes had been opened to it. And Anthoine had always stood behind Pierre on the middle barre in class, but he’d lately started moving away, because Pierre was also having the judge’s feedback used on him, but in the form of constant praise, and he was blossoming under it. He’d been middling in their eyes before, not hitting 180cm had really not been the school’s plan for him, but that no longer seemed to be an issue when they could use him as a medal to show off that their training was the best in the world._

_Pierre knew that Anthoine wasn’t handling it the best - he’d started becoming more reclusive, would spend longer practicing and stretching, had become quieter, hadn’t spoken to him as much. It was overshadowed by the fact he and Esteban were no longer really on speaking terms despite sharing a room, not since the comments said about Pierre’s win were being repeated far too often at school, where Esteban had previously been the favourite._

_It had still come as a shock when Anthoine had been called into Prost’s office and told he was going to be let go. That it was time to find a new school, or leave the ballet world altogether - Prost didn’t particularly care, but he was no longer a student of his as there was no way he would ever be suitable to work for the Opera. Pierre’s jaw had genuinely dropped when he hadn’t seen Anthoine’s name on the list of assessment results that had been put up in the central staircase._

_He and Esteban had flown into damage control mode, speaking again only for the purpose of finding somewhere for Anthoine to go. The top three result at Lausanne had proved invaluable, and Nice and Lyon had both been interested, which were closer to home for Anthoine, and still good schools that would give him plenty of opportunities. Monaco had also offered him an audition, and Anthoine had said he knew a few people there, and he was considering. He had seemed to bounce back, become excited about his new life, that he would be in a far saner life than that of an Opera Petit Rat._

_His parents had come to help move him out, he was going to go home for a little while, try out both Nice and Lyon and see where he preferred, since he had the choice, and Pierre and Esteban had helped him. They were taking boxes down between classes, trying to move out 7 years worth of Anthoine’s things with him, reminding him that he was going to have such, such a good career, with more freedom than the Opera had ever been able to afford its artists._

_“Anthoine? Your mum is going to be up in a few minutes, she’s gone making sure the car is facing the right direction,” Pierre had called through the door as he’d picked up one of the last boxes in the corridor. Esteban would still be a few minutes before he could get another one, busy trying to fit the last one into the back of Anthoine’s mum’s Captur,_

_There had come no answer though, and Pierre had opened the door to make sure he’d heard, and he’d seen Anthoine seeming to float. And then he’d seen the belt tied around his neck and the curtain railing, and he could hear a scream echoing through the tiny room, one that later on he’d have figured out could only have been his, as he’d been the only living one in there._

_He’d scrambled, climbing onto the dresser to try and undo the belt, to get Anthoine down, and Esteban had come in and started screaming too, had shouted for help, and he’d finally managed to unhook the belt and Esteban had caught Anthoine, and as they’d tried to get the belt from around his neck, Pierre could see how swollen his face was, how he looked like a waxwork and not like himself, that he wasn’t there._

_“He doesn’t have a pulse,” Esteban had cried, screaming as they started to give CPR like they’d been taught in health class, Pierre had felt Anthoine’s chest starting to feel like mush under his hands, didn't understand how it could still rise as Esteban gave mouth to -_

Pierre woke up in a cold sweat, looking around the room and trying to catch his breath.

He was in London, not France, and he could hear Alex’s music through their shared wall, and there were pictures of him and his friends pinned all over the walls, not in the room he and Esteban had been forced to sleep in for a year after Anthoine had died in it.

He was _home_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a description of a sucide in this one so if you want to skip it, ignore everything from 'There had come no answer though, and Pierre had opened the door to make sure he’d heard' you've already got the gist of what happened from what esteban said last chap anyway!


	11. Chapter 11

Pierre hadn’t had nightmares about Anthoine’s death for a few years, but hearing Esteban lay out the detail had obviously brought them back.

The next morning, he felt drained when the alarm went off on his phone, and he really contemplated just turning it off and rolling back over for more sleep. He didn’t know if that sleep would really be restful though, considering what had preceded it, and dragged himself out of bed instead.

Max was already in the kitchen when he went in, and Pierre could tell he was concerned, but Max was good at handling his concern in a hands off way. He wasn’t one for constant worried looks, or reassurance that things would be okay, he was more practical in his approach, and that was why when Max started sticking snacks into his bag for him, Pierre just let him do it.

The conversation in the car was light, as Pierre talked Max through how he’d convinced Dan to put up with doing work at the barre, and Max suggested pulling out a pair of tights for him next time so that he could get a _really_ good view. Max told him that Dan had asked to go for a coffee date, and how he’d suggested going karting instead, and Dan had been beyond thankful because he’d realised after he’d sent the message he’d immediately realised that Max would probably be too sweary for a coffee date, really. 

“You’ll be fine,” Max told him as they swiped their way into the opera house. “And if you’re not, tell me and I’ll come punch the cunt.”

“I’m sure Kimi would be happy at you leaving for that,” snorted Pierre, giving Max a quick hug before letting go.

“Kimi would probably come watch,” grinned Max, shaking his head before heading off towards the theatre stage. 

To be fair to Max, Pierre couldn’t deny that.

There was the same weird aura in company class that had been there the day that the first rumours about Charles Leclerc had arose. The strange thing was though, it wasn’t coming from the women this time - it was the men, and he swore he must have a sign on his back from the amount of eyes he felt on it.

The only thing Pierre knew had changed was the argument yesterday, but he also knew there weren’t many french speakers amongst the male corps. There was always the possibility that someone who did speak french had translated, but he also knew that _really_ , he hadn’t been implicated in it. It’d take someone who actually understood the situation to link it back to him, and aside from Charles and Esteban and Romain, he didn’t think there was anyone who could do that inside the Royal Ballet.

He knew it wasn’t him alone when George came in, and he got the same exact stares. 

“What the fuck is going on?” George whispered to him when they moved to the centre, having felt eyes on them throughout their time at the barre.

“Wish I knew,” shrugged Pierre. 

* * *

The eyes didn’t stop once class did. He’d gone to the company gym, deciding that tonight he needed to _really_ be tired to avoid a repeat of the night before, and he’d been watched there too. What was even weirder was that the same corps members and junior soloists had started copying his workout, which Pierre had to hold in a laugh at, because he’d never been the best at coming up with workout plans, it was George who was actually good at that. 

**royal opera hoes:**

**light of your lives: why did one of the dancers just come ask me about pierre and george’s meal plans**

**light of your lives: they seemed really disappointed when i said i just know your mcdonalds orders**

**baldo: probably because george actually trades fries for a fruit bag… never meet your heroes kids**

Similar things kept happening until his choreography session with Sebastian. During his lunch sat in the seats of the theatre with Max, Alex, and George, he’d even seen one of the first artists looking up Esteban on french Wikipedia, and copy pasting the entire article into google translate.

“Do they know something we don’t?” he’d asked George, nodding so he could see what was going on.

Once you hit first soloist, there wasn’t much contact with any of the male dancers below that rank as you started to learn the leading roles rather than ensemble numbers. Pierre knew that they were a bit removed from everything, but he really couldn’t see a reason for the sudden interest. 

“Maybe they’re just playing a very intense game of fuck, marry, kill,” said Alex, shrugging. “They need to know the details of what they’re getting into.”

* * *

Pierre had danced alongside Lewis Hamilton a few times during his career now. Hell, he still was, they had another performance next week of Romeo and Juliet together.

He’d never properly danced _with_ Lewis though. And he didn’t think that any man ever had been choreographed a pas de deux with Lewis, so this was entirely new ground for Pierre.

He knew Lewis was amazing. But working with him like this showed how _truly_ amazing he was. He’d been right, Lewis did have the same energy that Claire had, where it made Pierre unafraid to push himself, because Lewis would instinctively be able to cover for any mistake that pushing too hard caused. 

And pushing hard was working. Sebastian seemed ecstatic with what they were producing, so did Lance and Nicky, and Christian had even stayed in to watch after poking his head in to ask something. Christian hadn’t said anything, or shown any real expression on his face, but he had taken his phone out and started aiming the camera at them, so that was reaction enough. 

Lewis had been running through an ambitious jump sequence that Sebastian had just choreographed when _it_ hit. Pierre was stood to the side, between Christian and Nicky as he watched. 

It was probably the highest jets Pierre had ever seen, and he’d been amazed, then he’d realised that the balance wasn’t right, that Lewis’ feet weren’t coming back under him as he neared the floor, and he’d muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, and Christian had turned to look at him, and then there’d been a sickening crack that echoed throughout the room, and Lewis had cried out in pain.

He could tell from the angle his ankle was at that it was broken. There was no fucking doubt about it, it was completely the wrong way around, and a sick sense of dread filled him. That injury was potentially career ending.

* * *

“This is a mess,” sighed George, as he walked along with Pierre to Christian’s office. 

An urgent phone call had gone out to both of them, as well as Esteban and Charles. Lewis was going to need surgery, and that meant they needed to divide his performances between them for at least the next 6 months. They’d been warned to find out the dates of anything they needed days off for, and to bring something to note down their new performance schedule on.

“Don’t forget to get your anniversary off. Alex will kill me if you end up working it,” said Pierre. “And then kill you after you’re done.” 

Giving principal dancers the freedom to choose how they divided up touring vs home performances had been a major win for the Royal Ballet over the years. They’d been able to bring in and keep huge names because the flexibility just wasn’t matched anywhere else, but it meant that when of the few principals that stayed home couldn’t dance, it was a nightmare to get cover. They simply didn’t have the ranks that they needed in London.

“I was thinking more that I’m going to be sat in a room with you, Esteban, and Charles. There’s going to be tension there,” sighed George.

“At least if anything kicks off, it’s going to be in french. You can’t get dragged in,” said Pierre. He hadn’t thought about that, and he was kicking himself now. 

It was going to be the first time he’d seen Charles since the argument. This wasn’t going to be great. At least Daniil was on a late shift and could give him a lift home later. 

“Suppose that’s true. Force them to stay in french,” nodded George as they got to the door of the office. It was already open, Christian and Toto sat around the desk with a large calendar in front of them. 

“Between Nando telling the world he wants to retire and this, we’re fucked,” said Christian frustratedly, and Pierre looked at George. He could tell he hadn’t known that Fernando Alonso was planning on retiring either - though it explained why all the more junior men in the company now had a fire under their arses. They were eyeing up higher positions, assuming that one of the first soloists would be promoted into Fernando’s spot.

“Come in,” Toto said, waving them both in and gesturing for them to sit down. Neither Esteban or Charles were there yet, which would at least delay some of the awkwardness. “Pierre, are you free for the 20th? Esteban and George are already cast in that performance,” he asked, scribbling something into a box on the calendar when Pierre nodded. 

“I suppose that’s one performance sorted. You’re doing Romeo with Giada, get that into your calendar,” said Christian, and Pierre pulled out his phone, sticking the date in while Toto started to go through a few others, pencilling George in. 

Esteban filed in, Charles a few minutes later. Having George, Christian and Toto there managed to dispel some of the awkwardness, since they weren’t forced to interact directly, but they still sat at opposite ends of the office. 

Pierre could feel Charles’ eyes on him every so often.

“Claire has requested Pierre to partner her in Paris. We need to take him off the 29th,” said Toto, crossing something off. Christian opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by Toto quickly. “You’re going to ask me to say no, so we can do this again with the girls when we’ve not kept her happy and she retires?”

“I suppose,” sighed Christian. “29th, you’re in Paris, Pierre. Charles can take that one, Romeo with Charlotte Sine.”

  
“I don’t know how good an idea that is,” admitted Charles. “She’s my ex girlfriend.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Ask Pierre for tips,” said Christian cooly, writing Charles’ name in anyway. 

* * *

After over two hours, Lewis’ performances had been dished out between them all. 

“Boys, this is your chance to prove yourselves,” Toto had told them all. “We’ll do what we need to on our end so that you’re ready for these performances, but you need to do everything you can as well to pick up the slack.”

As they’d stood to leave, Christian had murmured, “Don’t forget that you’ve been here the longest. Show them how it’s done,” into his ear, then pushed past him to get through the door. It was technically true. He’d become a first soloist six months before George had, and a year before Esteban. It still felt weird to be getting told motivating things by Christian though. 

He pulled out his phone to try and scam a lift out of someone, sitting on one of the benches in the front entrance of the opera house. There was a performance going on, so he doubted many people would be filtering through, and the security knew who he was so wouldn’t try to kick him out. It sure beat standing outside in the rain.

**pierre: are you free?**

**max: yeah why**

**pierre: can you give me a lift home? don’t wanna walk home in the dark while its raining :(**

**max: my favourite weather to drive in, i’ll come but we’re going back the long way**

**pierre: that means lots of time for me to ask about your date then :)**

“Pierre?”

Pierre looked up, and could see Charles Leclerc walking towards him.

_Oh shit_.


	12. Chapter 12

”Can we talk?” asked Charles, switching straight into french.

Pierre knew that talking was probably a bad idea. They were in public, it was going to involve talking about Anthoine, Max was on his way, and he’d stuffed so many emotions down in the past few days, he had a feeling they’d brim over if he had to deal with any more of them.

  
But he’d never been the smartest, so he shifted over on the bench to give Charles room to join him. 

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” said Charles he sat down, and Pierre didn’t bother to hide the surprise on his face at that. “I spoke to Esteban earlier today. He explained. And he said you don’t talk about it, so we don’t need to go into details, but I assumed wrong.”

“You really did,” sighed Pierre. He’d have to thank Esteban once he figured out how to do it without bringing up the actual situation he was thanking him for.

“I did,” agreed Charles. “I was trying to make sense of it. And that was the easier way to make sense of it.”

“We loved him too. Me and Esteban fell out, but neither of us fell out with him,” murmured Pierre. “That’s all I’m going to say on it.”

“He explained that,” nodded Charles. “So I wanted to say I’m sorry. I was stupid. And if you can forgive me for it, I’d like to move on from being stupid.”

Pierre nodded, taking a shaky breath. “Okay. We can try again.”

“Thank you,” said Charles, looking over at him. “Seb said you’d done some good work on Bayadere. With Lewis.” 

“It was a good session. Until it finished,” said Pierre. “Who was the boy you were with? He came and asked for a picture when I was with my parents.”

“Arthur. My little brother,” said Charles. “He’s at Opera. You’re quite the celebrity there. I got him tickets to see you, since my family were over here helping me move.”

“I’d have thought they’d have used me as a bad example. I didn’t do what they wanted me to do in the end,” hummed Pierre. 

“Yes, but you succeeded anyway,” said Charles. “Probably more than you would have done there.”

“Well it’s nice to know they’re not that upset with me,” said Pierre, as his phone started to ring, a glance at the screen telling him it was Max. “My lift is here, so I’m going to have to go. Thank you for apologising. And look after your brother. It’s a stupid place.”

“I know. I’m learning,” said Charles, following Pierre to the doors. “I’ll see you in rehearsal?”

“Yeah,” nodded Pierre, and he could see Max looking at them from the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, before going to get into Max’s passenger seat.

“Has that dickhead been upsetting you again?” Max asked him as he buckled himself in, keeping his eyes on Charles as he started to walk away from the theatre. “Want me to go deal with him?”

“He apologised. For upsetting me,” said Pierre, shrugging. “So you don’t need to do anything. It’s okay.”

“He better stick with his apology. I promised Kimi a show if he carried on,” said Max.

“Did I tell you that I know who Kimi’s dick appointment was?” asked Pierre.

“What the fuck? No, you fucking didn’t.”

“Well I do. It’s Sebastian Vettel,” grinned Pierre. “He told me.” 

“How the fuck did you get him to tell you that?”

“He told me he heard about me being sad. That day I stayed with you at work,” said Pierre. “And I didn’t get who would have told him, then I remember Kimi leaving. And I asked him whether he was Kimi’s dick appointment, and he said ‘is that what he called it’. So that confirms it, right?”

“I don’t know what’s more amazing. That you got that information, or that someone in that fucking ballet company actually spoke to you about the fact you were sad,” said Max, shrugging. 

“He was nice about it,” said Pierre quietly. “Checked would I actually be able to partner Charles after that.”

“So he fucking should be,” said Max. “I swear to god, there’s been way too many fucking times I’ve seen you and George, even Ocon, plus loads of others I don’t know the names of, being depressed as fuck, and not one of those senior people have said shit to you. They usually just leave you to it. Or call you at 4am in the morning and send you flying to mainland Europe.” 

“Yeah,” said Pierre quietly. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard this rant.

“Christian? Fucking useless. He saw Cat flailing and shoved her on stage with you anyway, when if they really wanted to, they could have got someone else in. They could have,” said Max. “They’d have done it if she was sick.”

“I know,” said Pierre. 

“I know it’s a step up from whatever shit went on at school for you. But it’s stupid,” continued Max. “You guys make their jobs way too fucking easy by just getting on with it. Make them work for their fucking money.”

“I know,” sighed Pierre. “We need to talk about happier things before you start speeding because you’re ranting again. You’d have to actually take the penalty points this time. Tell me about your date?”

“It was nice,” said Max, shrugging. “We went karting.”

“That it? That’s all I’m getting on this?”

“Yeah.”

“…did he win? Is this why you’re just saying ‘nice’?” said Pierre, a grin forming.

“Technically, yes. Emotionally, no,” said Max. “He only won because of a loophole.”

“What was the loophole?”

“He crashed me into the tyres,” huffed Max. “I was going to win if it wasn’t for that.”

“I don’t think that counts as a loophole,” hummed Pierre. “Can’t believe he was close enough to be able to crash you out. That’s kinda impressive. So what did you do after he scammed you out of your win?”

“Raced him again,” said Max, looking at Pierre when he started laughing. “What?”

“You crashed him out, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I fucking did,” grinned Max. “And got black flagged for making it too obvious. And then we made out in the car on the way home.”

* * *

It was easier for Pierre to deal with the stares now that he knew what they were about.

_“Russell is British, you know they’ll want him as a principal.”_

_“Gasly’s getting the most principal roles though, and the french want to take him back.”_

“Do the french really want to take you back?” hummed George, as they walked along the corridor from company class.

“If they do, it’s a kidnapping operation. They haven’t told me that they do,” shrugged Pierre. 

The corps seemed to have singled him and George out as the most likely to get a promotion, which he understood. They seemed to want there to be a rivalry there though, which there’d never been with George, they’d managed to avoid that the entire time they’d been working together. George was a huge emotional support - he got what the stresses of their job were, would hear through the grapevine when something had gone massively wrong or had upset him, knew how his brain worked when it came to dance things. And George was _normal_ \- as normal as someone who devoted their life to one highly specific rigorous art form could be, he guessed, but _normal_.

They were different in style, so before now comparisons hadn’t ever really happened. He hoped George wouldn’t buy into all of them now. He didn’t want to lose George.

“Lets hope they don’t kidnap you then,” grinned George as he disappeared off into his coaching session.

* * *

Pierre had danced with many different partners in his career. 

None of them matched Charles Leclerc. Their bodies just _worked_.

Dancing with Lewis had given Pierre the confidence to push himself. He knew now that he could push that balance for the extra split second it took to make it look magical, that he could put his leg that bit higher, that he had that extra tiny bit of reserve to push higher, make the movement a bit faster.

Charles matched him on every bit of it. Where Pierre would push, Charles seemed to be instinctively able to judge and match it. Despite how slender he was, he was fucking strong, making it look like Pierre weighed nothing as he lifted him. And he seemed to make it all look _effortless_.

There was a weird electricity around him as he danced, like he was able to pull Pierre in. Even though this was just rehearsal, they were just in a studio and not in the stage, Charles was still acting like it was a performance, right down to his acting. When Charles looked to him after his solo, Pierre would have thought that the look of longing he gave him was real had he not known that it was part of the story that they were trying to tell. 

By the time they’d finished, Pierre was exhausted, and he could tell Charles was too. But it was in the most satisfying way, in the way where he knew there was absolutely nothing more that they could have given, nothing more they could have done, the same kind of exhaustion that going on stage gave him, where it was mixed with the high of knowing he’d done a _fucking good job_.

“He’s so fucking good,” sighed Pierre to Daniil, as he followed him around while he picked sheet music. “You should have seen him Dany.”

“I’m sure I’ll end up seeing him. I work here,” shrugged Daniil. “We end up seeing all of you.”

“No, but you look at whichever instrument you look at. Or sheet music or something,” said Pierre, flicking his arm gently. “You don’t get to properly see.”

“We probably don’t properly see what you see anyway,” said Daniil, flicking him back. “You’re watching him use his instrument. You wouldn’t notice if I missed a note, I won’t notice the things you notice. You’re trained to notice all of these things.”

“You’d never miss a note,” said Pierre. 

“You’re right. I wouldn’t,” said Daniil, nodding as he pulled another folder out. “Why are you surprised he’s good? He’s the same rank as you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not that good,” shrugged Pierre, and Daniil just stared at him. “Shush, Dany,” he said after a few moments.

“I didn't say anything,” said Daniil. 

“Your eyes did,” murmured Pierre, sighing. “So shh.”

* * *

Pierre had thought that everything Charles did when he danced was effortless. 

Their choreography sessions with Sebastian had made it seem that way. Everything Sebastian told them to do, Charles was able to pick up almost instantly. He was able to implement corrections without issue. He’d even lifted Pierre upside down and held him there, way longer than Pierre thought someone should be able to.

  
Romeo and Juliet seemed to be his achilles heel though. 

The Giada thing didn’t help, Pierre knew that. He’d danced with Giada plenty of times, and she was usually extremely easy to dance with, able to stay calm in the worst of situations. He’d been on stage with her once when her pointe shoe had snapped, and were it not for her suddenly needing a lot more support to stay up on pointe, he wouldn’t have known. The audience certainly hadn’t seemed to. She was usually cool, and calm, and collected.

Tonight though, she wasn’t calm at all. She was erratic, like she was trying to move through the choreography as fast as she could to get it over with. She hadn’t been like this when she’d been partnered with Lewis, she’d filled the music, but she seemed terrified of dancing with his replacement. 

  
Pierre felt like he was living his performance with Cat all over again. 

Charles seemed to be floundering as well, the easy confidence that he had in their sessions completely gone. True, for his first performance in the company to be Romeo was a real launch straight into the deep end. But like Giada, all his feet were in the right place, the movements were right, there was technically _wrong_ , but the whole feeling of everything wasn’t right.

This Juliet had no affection for her Romeo, and that lack of feelings was being returned. 

**royal opera hoes**

**baldo: wait… this is the guy pierre has been saying he’s not as good as?**

**baldo: because um**

**baldo: not to be rude**

**albono: he seemed very nervous when i was adjusting the shirt on him i won’t lie**

**albono: maybe its nerves**

**light of your lives: ‘didn’t he used to have a flat ass?’ - kimi on pierre**

**baldo: pierres journey through the opera is a beautiful one <3 from gas to ASS**

“He’s right though,” Alex murmured to Pierre, tacking large draping pieces of fabric under Pierre’s arms for his next scene. “You’ve been going on about how good he is.”

  
“He usually is,” said Pierre. “It’s the Cat thing all over again.”

“You need to pass on some tips then,” said Alex. “He’s dying out there. And Max can’t take the heat off him with the audience like he can with the group chat.”

“I’m not sure what tips I’ve got,” sighed Pierre, as the last tacking stitch was done. “Don’t get kicked down the stairs?”

“Better than no advice,” said Alex after a moment, shrugging. “Go on,” he said, ushering him out of the dressing room. 

Charles looked shellshocked where he stood in the wings, watching Giada dance her solo on stage. He had a hand clapped over his mouth, his thumb running over the angle of his jaw, and he looked really, _really_ lost. He looked like he could see this performance falling apart in front of him, the bits he was trying to catch just a hairs breadth out of reach, like despite his best efforts to save this ship he was going down with it.

Pierre couldn’t leave him floundering like that.

It was difficult though, because he still hadn’t really spoken to Charles. Their bodies had seemed to know how to communicate instantly when they danced, but the most they’d actually said to each other since their conversation in the front of the opera house was a quick hello and goodbye before and after rehearsals.

There was still a part of him that didn’t really trust Charles to flip back to the way he’d been the first time they’d met, cold and hard and judgemental. He couldn’t cross that boundary and risk things turning when things were going so well in choreography sessions. Charles hadn’t seemed to want to cross it either.

Things were going terribly tonight though. And there were 2000 people sat out in the audience who’d be ready to tear him apart on forums, and in reviews, and some would even cross the line into social media. Pierre had gone through it before, and he wouldn’t wish it on Charles. He doubted Charles had the support network here that he’d built up with his friends; even if things went wrong right here and now, he knew he had Alex in the dressing rooms, and Daniil in the orchestra, and Max up in the lighting box. He had the others too, Lando was just across the stage rigging up the balcony, and Antonio was putting the final touches on the wigs for act two, and even Carlos probably wouldn’t be a dick if he _really_ needed him. 

“Charles,” Pierre murmured as he moved up to his side, and he could see from the way Charles jumped that he’d been deep in thought. “You need to make it look like you love her. I know there’s a lot between you, but you need to make it look that way,” he whispered.

“And how do you suppose I do that? She’s giving me nothing to work with,” Charles whispered.

“You need to do whatever you do in our choreography sessions when it comes to acting,” whispered Pierre. “Just do that. She’s not giving you anything to work with, no. But she’s also not making herself look good here. You need to make sure that Romeo at least looks in love. The audience won’t thank you for matching her tonight.”

“I don’t do anything in our choreography sessions,” said Charles, sounding genuinely surprised. 

“Well whatever you’re thinking when you dance with me, start thinking about now,” said Pierre quietly. “Good luck,” he whispered, before stepping back to watch Charles run on.

* * *

_★★★☆☆ Romeo and Juliet - Ladies night? Not tonight!_

_Part of the privilege of having free access to the Royal Ballet’s production is to see the variety of casts on offer. Nowhere is variety more offered than in the upper ranks of the Royal Ballet’s men._

_Hamilton (oh please may he recover quickly!) is devastatingly competent and always pitches whoever he’s playing perfectly. Russell is following in his stead, with big developments in his acting over the years, always mannered and a breeze of calm. Gasly is the ultimate fairytale prince, with youthful good looks and frighteningly fast feet, never afraid to lace his precise dancing with emotion now that he’s become more comfortable on the stage of the Opera House. Ocon takes after his previous mentor Prost in his precision, but is always a shade darker in his interpretations, managing to add further complexity in exactly the right way._

_Charles Leclerc is the newest import to the Royal Ballet, fresh from Monaco, and was (perhaps embarrassingly) an unknown to me before his debut as Romeo. He is much beloved in continental ballet circles, but little has been said about him over here. He has the same pedigree as Russell and Gasly in that he won the Prix de Lausanne in his school days, so it’s clear he has the technical ability required to stand shoulder to shoulder with them, but he’s been fairly well hidden since his arrival last month._

_Hide him no more, Toto Wolff! Initially, I had grave doubts - the first half an hour of this performance was rocky, to say the least. Giada Gianni and he had a horrible lack of chemistry; not even Leclerc’s devilishly good looks and bad boy persona could seem to tempt his Juliet into being the least bit interested throughout the entire performance. He and Paris (played by Pierre Gasly tonight, who has become a huge threat to my bank balance with the announcement of him playing opposite Claire Williams at the Palais Garnier later this month) were perfect light and shade - which bodes well for the recently announced Sebastian Vettel production of La Bayadere which features both! - but Gianna just seemed frigid tonight, no matter who she was with at the time._

_Leclerc redeemed himself ultimately, with a resurgence from the balcony scene onwards. Nobody can ever know what exactly was said to get him into the form he came back in, but would that we could bottle those words and sell them to the masses! He was alluring and naughty and just right for a tale about picking the boy your parents don’t want you to. He also, however, has the rare ability to snap right into agony and heartbreak and grief - when I saw his reaction to his dead Juliet, I couldn’t help but tear up._

_I do hope that whatever the Royal Ballet is having with its ladies is sorted out soon, perhaps recalling one of their touring female principals would be a great deal of help. Overall, a fascinating outing to the ballet - do not shy away from casts with Leclerc! (Though if it’s Leclerc/Gianni, perhaps give it a miss.)_


	13. Chapter 13

”There’s our ‘ultimate fairytale prince’,” teased Alex, as Pierre came in for his fitting.

“Stop it. I’ve heard it enough from Max and Dany,” groaned Pierre, going to take the costume that had been designed for him off the rack. “It’s this one, right?” he asked, holding up the bejewelled trousers made out of multiple layers of sheer navy blue fabric.

  
“That’s the one,” said Alex, nodding. “Act 1 for your entrance. There’s going to be more jewels though when we’re done.”

“I don’t know how you expect me to jump with the amount of jewels you’ve already got on these. They weigh a shit ton,” huffed Pierre, going to get dressed into them. “You weren’t joking when you said you were going for slutty temple dancer, were you?” he sighed when he came back, pants slung low on his hips.

“Fairytale princes don’t say the word slutty, Gasly,” said Alex with a grin, moving to start pinning the fabric onto him properly. “It’s improper.”

“You’re having far, far too much fun with that review. All of you,” sighed Pierre. “One of the corps saw me trip over today and said it was because of ‘frighteningly fast feet’. Your sense of humour is spreading.”

“We can’t help being funny. Someone has to be in this company,” shrugged Alex, as he continued to pin. “And all of you are too serious to do it.”  


“Poor George. I’ll have to tell him that you think he’s too serious,” said Pierre, shifting into the positions Alex told him to so he could continue pinning. “Please tell me you made the Solor costume worse than this one.”

“His nips are getting exposed too. It’s a very shirtless ballet, except for whichever girl is playing Gamzatti,” grinned Alex. “You’re getting the sparkliest costume though. And the sheerest. That thong you all wear is going to work with this one.”

“It’s a dance belt, not a thong,” said Pierre, ruffling Alex’s hair.

“It’s a very fancy thong,” said Alex, reaching up to fix his hair before adding a final safety pin on each of Pierre’s hips. “Come on. Onto the stage so we can see if your dick accidentally shows.”

“Wait, what? No,” frowned Pierre. “You’re joking,” he said, when Alex raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Vettel’s orders,” shrugged Alex. “He’s literally out there right now. Haven’t you seen the group chat? Max is livetexting his and Kimi’s interactions to see if they actually have fucked.”

“I’ve been busy,” said Pierre. “So does Max think they did fuck or not?” he sighed, making his way out of the costume department with Alex, ignoring the wolf whistles he got as they walked down towards the stage.

“Putting on a show already,” grinned Alex. “He thinks they definitely fucked. He’s figuring out whether they’re into BDSM right now.”

“I’m going to ignore all discussion of that and say no,” said Pierre. “It’s safer for my brain that way, I think.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” said Alex, pressing his hands to Pierre’s chest as the walked through the back sets. “Your nipples are too much for Lando’s virgin eyes. We’ve got to protect him.”

“My eyes aren’t virgins,” called Lando, lugging a fake fire pit to the stage. “And I already saw them already!”

“Honestly. I’m just a professional walking through his place of work with his nipples out,” sighed Pierre. “Why can’t people respect this?” 

“They need to be more professional, like Max,” nodded Alex. “He’s definitely not going to say shit about nipples.”

“He’ll be busy figuring out which light will make these pants look transparent,” said Pierre, shaking his head fondly. 

“Doing god’s work,” said Alex, taking his hands off him once they reached the stage. “Off you go. Your audience is waiting.”

“My audience?” asked Pierre, looking out. “Fucking hell. Can’t believe Max has managed to drag Dan out of Marko’s lair for this. How come he’s wasting time texting?”

“Because he loves his friends and wants them updated. Your new idol is over by Sebastian as well, so make these look good,” said Alex, nudging him out onto the stage.

“Beautiful work, costuming!” called Sebastian. “Blue is definitely his colour!”

“Thanks,” called Pierre, going to centre stage to let the lighting crew work out what exactly worked, and showed an embarrassing amount.

He’d loved stage lights since he’d first stepped onto the stage as an 8 year old in his very first dance show. They somehow made dancing feel real, with their warmth and blinding brightness, and he fed on them. They’d always impressed on them at school that the second they stepped on stage, no matter what they were doing - whether they were just sitting, or standing still, or pretending to be dead on the floor - it was art from that point on, and stage lights had always made him feel at home in that fact. 

“Pierre?” called Sebastian, once the right intensity of light had been figured out. “What about if we run the act one entrance in that? Check that it’s okay. Orchestra, you have the music right?” 

There was some murmuring, and a flurry of paper shuffling, before the orchestra gave him an affirmative.

Despite all the times he’d complained to his flatmates about how difficult it was, Pierre _loved_ what Sebastian had choreographed for him. It played to his strengths, with big port de bras and balances, and shows of flexibility that were the main thing he had that the other senior men didn’t. He’d watched a video of him practicing it back on Sebastian’s phone, as they talked through changes that might work, and he had to admit that he looked fucking _good_. 

He’d never had the confidence in his dancing that he should have, he knew that. Christian had pointed it out as a weakness of his in every performance review he’d ever had. It went right back to school, really, where he’d dreaded the assessments and had genuinely thought each and every time that it was the time they’d see through him, that it was the time he’d finally be found out for having faked his way to the point he’d reached. Debut performances still felt like that, like he needed to prove himself, despite him never having actually received terrible feedback on them and the media was generally very good to him now. 

But this variation was definitely his. There was no way it could be anybody else’s, not with how it used every single one of his strengths and showed them off to the maximum. Sebastian Vettel was a fucking genius.

“Bravo, bravo,” called Sebastian happily as he finished, and as Pierre looked out, he could see that his friends looked proud of him. Even though he knew none of them really got ballet, they’d always seemed to be able to pick up on what was good and what wasn’t, even if the grey area in the middle wasn’t easy for them to read. Their reaction told him that he’d done a good job, and it made him feel warm inside.

“Charles? Why don’t we run the act one duet?” he could hear Sebastian asking, before calling, “You’re up for that, right Pierre?”, and honestly with the way his choreography made him feel, Pierre would have nodded to anything that Sebastian said to him to keep on being given it. 

Charles seemed remarkably less nervous than the last time Pierre had seen him near the Opera House’s stage. It wasn’t a home to him yet - it had taken Pierre six months to get used to it, to properly feel like he knew this theatre, and that was with friends in almost every corner of it - but there was a quiet confidence to him now.

“You’re a bit exposed,” Charles said to him, looking him up and down as they waited for the orchestra to find the right sheet music.

“Alex said yours is going to be just as shirtless, so get used to it,” said Pierre, shrugging. “Maybe a few less jewels though, I don’t know.”

“Who’s Alex?”

“My flatmate,” said Pierre, looking over and pointing to where Alex was chatting to Lando in the wings. “The taller one.”

“Ah,” said Charles. “He lives with you and your boyfriend?”

“My boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend,” said Pierre, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“That guy,” said Charles, looking out to the audience and nodding to where Max was showing Daniel something on his phone. “He picked you up.”

“Oh my god,” laughed Pierre, shaking his head. “Oh my god. No. No, I’m not with Max. He’s another of my flatmates. Oh my god.”

“I didn’t think it was that weird a thing to assume,” said Charles quietly.

“It’s just funny to me. He’s over there flirting with someone very openly?” said Pierre.

“He’s saying he’d crush him in any sport of his choosing.”

“That’s flirting for Max,” hummed Pierre. “I didn’t say he was very good at it.”

“That’s -“ started Charles, but the rustling in the orchestra was starting to die down, and Pierre could see Toto and Christian walking down the central aisle in the audience to watch, obviously having caught wind of the miniature preview that was happening. 

“Showtime,” said Pierre, grinning at him and watching him go to the wings so they could start.

Pierre didn’t get how Charles could have said that he didn’t do anything in their choreography sessions, that he didn’t know how to pretend to be in love. Right from the moment he bowed to him to start the pas de deux, Pierre could see that he was switched on, green eyes looking up into his, looking at him as though he was in awe that they got to dance like this, and it made his heart jump. 

It made it easy to pretend right back, to be a Nikiya so overjoyed that Solor had returned, for their secret tryst near the temple. Charles held him firm in their balances, lifted him effortlessly, and the feeling of his hands on his bare skin sent shocks down his spine. When Charles threw him in the air, that split second he wasn’t being held made it feel like he was flying, and really Pierre couldn’t say if he actually touched the ground the entire time. He knew he must have - there were jumps, and balances, and they weren’t actual possible without contact with the floor, but he felt like he was genuinely capable of floating when he danced with Charles.

There was applause, genuine applause, as they separated their embrace for the second part of the pas de deux, before Nikiya and Solor swore their souls to each other. Pierre could see that Charles still had the same look of awe and love and longing that was so _perfect_ as he watched the tiny solo parts between his own, could feel his eyes on him as he ran to the other side of the stage.

There was more applause when they finished, when they ran away from each other to opposing sides of the stage, and though it wasn’t really a performance, Pierre could feel how alive they’d left that stage feeling, like electricity was burning up through his toes into his veins, making his heart pound and his spine tingle. 

**royal opera hoes**

**light of your lives: pierre’s done it again guys**

**albono: what, made another partner actually genuinely fall in love with him?**

**baldo: seems like it tbh**

**light of your lives: the costume looked good though alex well done**

**albono: thanks :) its 10 layers of silk chiffon and my fingers are bleeding from dealing with it all week**

**albono: and i have yet to make the two other costumes he’s got :) :) :)**

**сука блять: i was just coming into this chat to say he’s done it again but i guess max already said that**

**сука блять: carlos has already asked me for details on them getting together**

**light of your lives: i’m printing out the text where dany admitted to having the same thought as me. proof at last that i am an intelligent lifeform**

**ultimate fairytale prince: what are you on about omg**

**ultimate fairytale prince: um i’ll take the assly one over this new name i think**

**baldo: sorry names are stuck, can’t be changed right now that function is broken**

**ultimate fairytale prince: ffs**

**ultimate fairytale prince: i don’t get what you all mean**

**ultimate fairytale prince: we’re acting**

**light of your lives: ah yeah haha acting :) :) :)**

**albono: such good acting from him on monday before you spoke to him :) :) :)**

**baldo: a c t i n g :) :) :)**

**ultimate fairytale prince: we literally don’t even talk…**

**albono: something something talk with bodies something**

**сука блять: you were literally talking while we got the sheet music ready**

**ultimate fairytale prince: because he thought max was my boyfriend omg**

**albono: oh my god**

**сука блять: it’s happened before in fairness**

**baldo: is this why you were laughing in french**

**сука блять: laughing in french is just laughing…**

**light of your lives: HAHAHAHAHA oh my god**

**light of your lives: oh my god i’ve got to tell kimi, someone asked him the same thing last week**

**ultimate fairytale prince: and i asked why would max be sitting in the audience flirting with someone else if that was the case**

**ultimate fairytale prince: he didn’t get that max threatening to crush a grown man at any sport was his version of flirting**

**albono: thats the textbook example of max flirting**

**baldo: that sebastian guy is crying laughing now max what did you do**

**сука блять: back to the point, leclerc is interested in whether pierre has a boyfriend or not**

**albono: interesting :) very interesting :)**

**ultimate fairytale prince: no he’s not, he just thought alex was third wheeling me and my boyfriend**

**baldo: how has he not seen alex yet… i thought george had fucked him in every corner of the opera house now… he’s been working here for weeks**

**albono: actually studio 3 remains untouched and so does the lighting box, max is guarding it :(**

**сука блять: live your dreams lest they escape you**


	14. Chapter 14

The preparation for Paris was some of the most gruelling Pierre had ever done.

It wasn’t just the long hours in the studio, trying to make sure that he was ready to partner Claire again, and make sure that Bayadere was practiced enough that he could jump straight into it when he was back.

  
It was also that news of his performance in Paris had blown up. There were requests from Canal+ and France 2 for interviews, and his agent had somehow found himself fielding requests from dance magazines for photo and video shoots, and it all had to somehow fit into the day and a half he was going to be spending in his home country.

Toto saying that he would be coming with him had reassured him, until it had been announced that Emmanuel Macron had announced that it was _that_ performance that he was going to be attending, and honestly at that point Pierre had ended up in the arms of his flatmates crying and ordering an emergency takeaway from their favourite pizza place, because he just _didn’t get it._

“Why is everyone so fucking interested in it though? I’ve performed in France before,” whined Pierre. 

“Yeah, but not when there’s a principal spot going free, and not when you’re the most senior dancer who’s not a principal, and not at Paris’ Opera House where you trained, and not when you’ve been having that Vettel guy choreograph on you,” shrugged Max, shoving a slice of pizza in his mouth.

“As always, Max is the best at helping with anxiety,” said Alex, sighing. “It’s positive attention Pierre. They like you, so they want to see more of you.” 

“I know that,” sighed Pierre. “It just adds pressure though. If I fuck up on stage it’s now an international thing.”

“You’ve been getting reviews from international reviewers for ages,” said Daniil. “Max said they wrote some when you were in Amsterdam.”

“They did?” asked Pierre, looking to Max worriedly.

“Yeah. They were boring,” said Max. “Said you were attractive and you danced well and they liked you. Same shit they always say. That’s why I didn’t bother translating them for you.” 

“And the french reviewers came to your debut and you ranted for five minutes about how they were all convinced you were going to come back to France,” said Alex.

“And about how you didn’t want to move back to France ever, and you wanted to stay here and live with us and make Max look after us in our old age since he’s the youngest,” said Daniil.

“And then you realised you’d all die if I was left as your only carer and panicked over that,” said Max, shrugging. “It’s gonna be fine Pierre. You’re going to go to France, smash it, and they can be super fucking patriotic over it and feel very justified in refusing to ever speak english. That’s what everyone wants to happen.”

“They do speak English. I speak English,” said Pierre.

“You spoke almost zero English when you moved over,” said Alex. “You and George used to talk on Google translate.”

“He’s such a snitch,” said Pierre, sighing. 

* * *

“Are you excited to go home?” asked Charles, fiddling with the elastics on his ballet shoe.

“It’s not really home,” shrugged Pierre. “Here is home now.”

He and Charles had been gradually starting to speak more over the past few weeks, ever since the costume fitting. They still weren’t saying anything particularly deep - it was generally small talk between sessions, when they were both lay exhausted and trying to catch their breath on the floor after difficult choreography, occasionally at the barre in company class.

  
It was nice though, getting to speak to Charles. Pierre was starting to find it easier, starting to see that maybe Charles genuinely had changed his mind about him from when they’d first met. Esteban seemed comfortable enough to have him on the same barre as him in class, and he was the one who’d had the huge fight in the first place, so maybe Pierre was being too precious. It was difficult though, with him still having nightmares occasionally, nightmares that Charles had dredged back up.

“You think you’ll stay here forever?” asked Charles.

“I think so,” said Pierre quietly. “I like it here.”

“And you don’t like France?” asked Charles, looking over at him.

“There’s a lot that happened there. And I’ve got my friends here, and my job here,” said Pierre. “It’s an hours flight back if I ever need to go, or I could technically drive to my parents if I needed.”

“You’re from northern France,” said Charles. “Right?”

“Normandy,” nodded Pierre. “Rouen specifically, but nobody knows where that is.”

“So not that far away in the grand scheme of things,” said Charles. “When are you flying out?”

“Tonight,” said Pierre. “Max is going to drive me to the airport once I’m done here.”

“Can I ask you something? It’s okay if you say no to it,” said Charles.

“If you’re going to ask if Max is my boyfriend again, the answer is still no. Otherwise, fire away,” shrugged Pierre.

“Can you give me your number?” asked Charles. “I just - Arthur was desperate to go to your performance, so I got him tickets andI said I would go to Paris and take him, and then he found out about me dancing with you, and now he’s got a lot of questions he wants me to ask you about auditioning abroad, and -“

“Sure. You could have just asked me for tickets instead of buying them,” shrugged Pierre. “He doesn’t want to join the Opera?” he asked, taking Charles’ phone and putting his number in, making sure to phone himself so he had Charles’ too.

“He wants to hedge his bets. Plus I think it’s become less of a popular option now. Since you’ve basically blown the myth that staying there is your best chance of success,” said Charles. 

“Really?” asked Pierre, raising an eyebrow. “I thought they’d started fixing promotions.”

“Maybe a little. You’d still be a quadrille or coryphée if you’d stayed there. But you’re going to be a principal at the age of 23.”

“I’m really not,” sighed Pierre, looking up when Charles just frowned at him. “What?”

“You’re not quitting, right?” asked Charles.

“No?”

“That’s the only thing I can think of that would keep you from getting promoted.”

“It’s not about me being kept from it, there’s just better optio-“

“Well Seb and Christian both recommended you for it,” said Charles, and Pierre could only look at him in shock. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” said Pierre, voice quiet with shock. He knew Sebastian had been happy with him, happy with how Bayadere was progressing, but he didn’t think he’d have been advocating for him to be promoted. And Christian was a huge shock - he didn’t think Christian had ever really been pleased with him, they had never seemed to properly gel, and their annual progress reviews when new contracts were arranged usually left him feeling deflated. 

“Well they did. Seb told me himself,” said Charles, looking at him. “They had a meeting and people told Toto who they thought. And Christian and Seb both said you.”

“That’s not what I expected to hear, to be honest,” said Pierre, blinking a few times. 

“Well,” shrugged Charles. “It’s what happened. And that’s why you’re going to get pestered by students in Paris, so prepare for that.”

* * *

When he was little, Pierre had dreamed of the Palais Garnier. His mother had taken pictures of him on the lavish central staircase on the day of his audition for school, that were now framed next to his graduation photos, and he remembered that she’d crouched next to him and told him that it was where dreams where made. Where he’d be most at home, where he’d become an etoile, a star.

He’d done shows there, and class demonstrations, and the grand defile at the opening of the season every single year of school. He’d performed in the competition to get a place in the Opera, and he’d done it, been handed that contract over to sign before anyone else had.

  
Looking up at it from the outside though, Pierre still felt unworthy. 

“My baby, performing for the President,” sighed his mother happily, giving him a squeeze. She’d picked him up from the airport, and had rambled on about how excited she was and about how his entire family was going to be coming, and about how devastatingly proud of him she was. 

“It’s a bit strange, really,” said Pierre, still looking up at the building in front of him. “People seem a lot more interested than I thought they’d be.”

“You’ve worked very hard all these years, and it’s paid off,” his mother smiled. He didn't really want to tell her that he was only here because Claire had asked for him after her original partner had been injured, that he hadn’t actually been cast for it in the first place. “Go, go! You’ve got a lot of things to do later, so take your time to go and rehearse. Be the star that we all knew you were ever since we packed you off to school.”

“Thanks, maman,” said Pierre, giving her a hug before letting go. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“One last picture, Pierrot,” smiled his mother, and she stepped back to get a good shot of him posing in front of the entrance, the same pose she had in the other pictures in her hallway. “All done. Go and shine for us.”

The Palais Garnier felt familiar, probably more familiar than it should considering how occasional his visits as a petit rat had actually been. But Pierre couldn’t help but think about it being like an old shoe that was well worn, but simply no longer fit. It had definitely been right once, he’d got the best training possible here, but he had no regrets about his decision not to sign his life away to it.

It was probably the most beautiful building in the world, and he’d said no to it. 

“Ah, Pierre,” smiled Toto when he spotted him at the entrance to the rehearsal spaces in the theatre’s cupola. “Claire is already in. We have two hours here, and then you’re going to be taking photos downstairs, and then interviews.”

“No pressure,” said Pierre, managing a small smile for him. “And the same tomorrow, before the performance?”

“A dancer who reads his emails. I think that may be a first,” laughed Toto. 

* * *

“Blue really is your colour,” cooed the stylist for the photoshoot, as she adjusted the neckline of the shirt he’d been asked to change into.

“I’ve been told that before,” said Pierre, tipping his head up to give better access, as another woman carefully styled his hair into place.

He didn’t know what the photos were for, really. There was a mix of them; he’d done a few pictures doing balances on the grand staircase, a couple of shots of him doing grand jetes along the balcony, and now he’d been asked to switch into street clothes, jeans and a tight shirt and sit on the steps of the central staircase and stare moodily into the camera.

“And let the camera know you love it Pierre,” said a man behind the camera, and Pierre couldn’t help but think this wasn’t quite as fun as when he and his flatmates would have a photoshoot, trying to get something fun and interesting for his and Alex’s instagrams, where they’d go to a park and take pictures until Max or Daniil inevitably got bored and would do something fun to spice things up.

He tried his best though, and the photographer seemed pleased, but then there was another stylist to get him ready for interviews, and before he knew it he was in front of an interviewer for Canal+, explaining that he was very proud to be performing at the Palais Garnier, and yes he was the first in his family to dance, that no none of his four brothers had ever tried it, it was something that was entirely his own, and his family had always reassured him in school that if he wanted to quit and go home to Rouen, that was fine with them. 

There was skirting around some awkward questions that he had to do, like what he planned to do for the rest of his life, and whether there was a chance that he’d like to come back and work in France full time, but on the whole it was essentially the same bullshit questions he’d been asked at the galas, he just had the advantage of them being in his mother tongue so he could word his answers better. 

By the time he’d finished, it was dark outside and he’d missed the dinner he’d been meant to go to with his parents and brothers, though his dad had texted him and said not to worry since one of his interviews had been aired in the restaurant so they knew how busy he must be. A quick text told him that they had indeed finished and were on their way back to their hotels, so he decided to do the same, making a quick stop to pick up some food on his way.

London and Paris didn’t look that different on the surface, really - he got why Paris Syndrome was a thing. There were still huge traffic jams at 5pm, and litter on the streets, and people rushing, but the signs in the windows of the shops were in french, and the cars that were honking at each other were on the right side of the road, but other than that he didn’t think the difference was as large as people thought. Not in late October anyway, when it was still cold and raining and windy. And to him, Paris didn’t feel as warm as London, in that it didn’t seem like _his_. 

His hotel was nice, at least, the Sofitel close to the Opera. One good thing about having a physical job was that the Royal Ballet always made sure he had a nice hotel with a comfortable bed, and were particular on that point. He had the TV turned on as background noise as he ate and texted, trying to catch up on everything that he’d been sent during the day.

**royal opera hoes**

**albono: so basically, that is why i think we should get a cat**

**mad lad russell: excellent analysis, pure facts on every single point**

**сука блять: the rental agreement says no pets**

**baldo: just hide it if the landlord comes around! it’ll be fine! that’s how we get away with it :)**

**light of your lives: if we get a cat it has to be one of those fucking huge things that could fight a bear. with all the hair and shit.**

**сука блять: you’re thinking of a lion**

**light of your lives: potentially**

**ultimate fairytale prince: first - yes to a cat and second - wtf i miss you all a lot :(**

**mad lad russell: he’s alive boys**

**albono: pierre gasly? havent heard that name in years**

**albono: joking we miss you too :(**

**light of your lives: wtf do you miss us for you’ve been gone less than 24 hours**

**baldo: max has been in a mood all day ever since nobody laughed at him making the spotlights look like boobs, don't listen to him**

**light of your lives: pierre would have laughed :(**

**ultimate fairytale prince: i would have :(**

**baldo: someone was literally on stage at the time**

**mad lad russell: how come i have to search on twitter for pics of you being the king of france, huh? what is this chat for? i thought we were friends?**

**сука блять: france has made its stance on having a monarchy known for some time now**

**albono: please tell me you snuck the blue shirt into your suitcase, kinda wanna steal it**

**ultimate fairytale prince: they gave it to me**

**albono: good, i’ll be taking that when you get back thanks <3**

Pierre set his phone down, rubbing his eyes as he shifted to get comfortable under the covers. He heard his name being said on the TV, and could see that there was a news feature on him, with a few clips from times reporters had come and recorded them in school. He cringed when he saw his skinny, awkward 11 year old self very earnestly tell the camera that he wanted to work for the opera when he grew up and didn’t ever want to go anywhere else, because that had certainly not proven to be the case.

There were a few clips of him in class, and he felt a pang in his chest when he saw Anthoine, looking happy and lively and carefree as he stood on the same barre as Esteban and him in their first year, like there was nowhere he’d rather be in the world. At least one of them hadn’t lied about that. 

Sleep didn’t come easily that night, and it felt like he lay in bed before for hours before he eventually managed, resisting the temptation to look at his phone every five minutes, to give his brain a chance to think about something other than the fact he hadn’t yet fallen asleep and that he had the performance of his life to do tomorrow, and about how it felt like he’d taken Anthoine’s place on that stage away from him somehow.

* * *

Pierre felt like ice when he woke up in the middle of the night, cold right down to his bones. 

He didn’t understand why - he was in a nice hotel, under a thick duvet, and the room had been warm enough before. It was only October, it shouldn’t be this cold, he didn’t think he’d ever felt colder. He tried to sit up, to go and checked he’d closed the windows, but it was like his body was magnetised to the bed - no matter how hard he tried, he just _couldn’t move_. 

His body had never failed him before. He’d always been in tune with it, had an awareness of where the limit was with it, and yet here he was, unable to move any part of him a single centimetre. He tried speaking, shouting, but his voice wouldn’t work either - the only part of him that would move were his eyes, and his room was so dark that they proved near useless.

He could feel something pressing on his chest, and on his neck, and it made it difficult for him to breathe, and he wanted to cry out, to scream, because he was panicking now, fully terrified that something horrible was happening to him, that someone he couldn’t see was trying to kill him. He felt it tighten around his neck, and as he looked around the room desperately, he could see a shadowy figure in the corner. It seemed to have seen him look at him, because it came closer, and closer, until it was looming over him, and Pierre could see that it had Anthoine’s face.

“You let me die, Pierre,” hissed Anthoine, and the pressing on his neck grew harder, and it felt like he could hardly shift any air at that point, his hands were starting to tingle and grow numb, and then all of a sudden everything released, and Anthoine was gone, and he could sit up and take the largest, most desperate breath he’d ever taken in his life, and he _sobbed_. 

He’d had awful nightmares before, but nothing like this - he knew he hadn’t been sleeping for this, he was awake, he could feel and hear everything, and no matter how hard he’d tried he couldn’t move or get away or wake himself up. The usual nightmares he could cope with, he’d occasionally need to sit out on the balcony and know that he wasn’t wherever they’d been set, but this was an entirely different beast, and he didn’t know what to do.

If he was home, he would have gone to Daniil, who’d have known exactly what it was that plagued him, and how to fix it. If there was no Daniil, he’d go get Max, who would hold him tight and threaten to beat the shit out of whatever had upset him. If Max was too angry, he’d go and get Alex, who was always able to stay calm and reassuring and level headed in these kinds of situation.

But he wasn’t home, and he had no chance of getting home. He needed someone who understood the Anthoine issue anyway, and the other person who truly understood it was Esteban, who was also stuck a country away, even if Pierre could bring himself to call him about this. 

When it dawned on him, he reached for his phone with shaky hands, pressing the contact of Charles Leclerc. 


	15. Chapter 15

”Hello?” came a groggy voice. 

“Are you in France yet?” asked Pierre quietly, willing his voice to stay steady.

“Yeah, I’m in Nanterre. Why? You know it’s midnight?” asked Charles tiredly.

“Can you come to central Paris? I’m really scared and I know it’s late and we’re not -“

“I can come. Where are you?”

“My hotel. It’s the Sofitel near the Opera. Hotel Scribe,” said Pierre. “If you get the RER A from the stop near the ballet school, it’s 3 stops away. Gare Auber.”

“And you’re on your own?”

“Yeah,” said Pierre, chewing his lip as he got up to put the lights in the room back on. Though nightmare Anthoine had disappeared, he’d still been scared that he might be lurking in a dark corner. He might not be able to get him while he was speaking to Charles, 

“Okay,” sighed Charles, and Pierre could hear rustling in the background of the phone call. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? I’ll phone you when I need you to let me in?”

“Okay,” said Pierre. “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

  
“It’s okay,” said Charles. “If you’re scared, you’re scared. It’s not your fault.”

* * *

Pierre could feel the judgement pouring off the concierge as he stood in the lobby waiting for Charles. He supposed that saying he was waiting for a friend at midnight hadn’t really made him look the most innocent, but surely these people were paid to mind their business?

He sighed with relief when he saw Charles step through the doors. Charles looked as tired as he felt, and Pierre could tell that he’d woken him up - his hair was flat and bed worn, rather than the way it was usually styled, and he was in a loose jumper and some sweats. 

This was stupid. He shouldn’t have dragged Charles out of bed just because he had some bad dreams. Not when he didn’t know if he had it in him to explain what had actually happened in it, definitely not.

  
But Charles looked worried as he came towards him, and rested his hand on his back as Pierre led him back to the lift, and he didn’t seem annoyed at him at all for calling him out so late, even though they were just dance partners, even though they’d barely spoken in the grand scheme of things, even though the reason he’d been called was that he was the only person in the right country who knew about Anthoine.

  
“You’ve been crying,” murmured Charles, sitting down on his bed with him and looking at him and the lights of the hotel room seemed to dance in his eyes as he looked at him in concern. 

“Yeah,” said Pierre, sighing as he looked at him. “Like I said. Scared.”

“So what scared you then?”

And part of him wanted to not tell Charles, to not reveal how stupid his brain was, but he’d woken Charles up and dragged him across the Seine in his moment of panic, so he knew that wasn’t really a possibility here. It wouldn’t be fair not to say, and so he told him.

“It sounds like sleep paralysis,” said Charles, sighing. “You were awake but you couldn’t move?”

“It was like someone had glued me to the bed,” nodded Pierre. “And I went very cold, and could see… you know.”

“That’s what sleep paralysis is like,” nodded Charles. “You’re stuck with whatever you’re seeing until you suddenly become able to move again. And you can’t breathe.”

“You’ve had it before?” asked Pierre, watching as Charles nodded. “How do I get rid of it?”

“It depends,” said Charles. “Sometimes it just never comes back. Sometimes it gets brought on by stress. Sometimes if you’ve seen something traumatising it goes away with therapy.”

“I hope it’s the first,” sighed Pierre. “It was awful.”

“It might not be the first,” said Charles. “I got it after my dad died. I used to see him walking around the room. It took therapy to make it go away.” 

“And it worked?” asked Pierre quietly.

“It worked,” said Charles. “It took time but it worked. Esteban said you never had any therapy after Anthoine’s death. He said he didn’t think you’ve ever been for any.”

“I -“ started Pierre, looking to him in surprise. “You got this deep into a conversation with Esteban?”

“We had to clear the air, so it was a very long conversation,” said Charles, shrugging. “He told me pretty much everything. About what happened. About you having to sleep in that room for the next year. About how they had you on stage dancing the next day. And about how you still don’t talk about it and it does genuinely still affect you and how you’ve never had any kind of therapy because you don’t want to hurt yourself dragging it back up.” 

“Err…”

“He also said he’s smarter than you and thats why he knows this despite you thinking he doesn’t,” said Charles. 

“Bastard,” sighed Pierre. “He’s not smarter.”

“He seems to be a little smarter when it comes to this,” said Charles, shifting to lay down on the bed and Pierre followed suit. “You’re more talented though, so it evens out.”

“He’ll hate you for saying that, you know?” said Pierre, a small smile playing around his lips as he looked over at Charles.

“He said it first, not me,” said Charles. “He knows you’re getting that principal spot too. I think he’s a little bit proud, you know? He seemed it, even though you don’t talk.” 

“How come he’s much nicer to you about me than he is to me?” sighed Pierre. 

“He feels guilty. That you weren’t talking when Anthoine died,” said Charles. “Don’t worry, I’ve told him the virtues of therapy and grief counselling as well.”

“You’ve not told me the virtues of therapy and grief counselling though,” said Pierre.

“Because I’m not keeping you up longer than you need to be the night before a performance,” said Charles, shifting to loosen the blanket under him and throwing it over Pierre. “I’ll do once you’ve finished performing.”

“Huh,” said Pierre, getting comfortable. “What about tonight?”

“I’m staying here tonight. I got the last train in, so I can’t get back to my hotel anyway,” said Charles. “So go to sleep. If you have another, at least I’m here and I can wake you up.”

“My friends are going to feel really validated whenever they find out I shared a hotel room with you,” sighed Pierre, closing his eyes as Charles reached forwards, playing with his hair and to lull him off to sleep. 

  
“That’s the price you pay for a night of sleep,” said Charles. “I think it’s a really easy trade. Go to sleep.”

* * *

Charles was _beautiful_. 

Pierre had already known it. He had eyes, and he’d been in closer physical proximity to Charles than most humans had with how they danced together. He’d had plenty of opportunity to see that he was beautiful

But seeing Charles asleep, and the way that his face looked when it was completely at rest, and the way his eyelashes splayed over his cheekbones, and the way his hair fell into his face made Pierre’s mouth go dry as he looked at him. The hand still in Pierre’s hair was a dead giveaway that he hadn’t been awake much longer than he had, and he could feel warmth radiating off him with how close they were. It was just _different,_ and Pierre swallowed thickly to try not to think about it as he slipped out of the bed to go and shower.

He heard Charles’ phone alarm go off from the bathroom, and he suddenly he was very glad that he hadn’t waited longer to move, that Charles wouldn’t be waking up to him staring at him slack jawed, and that he wouldn’t have to explain it. It was probably already weird enough that out of everybody in the world, Charles had been the one he called last night, as much sense as it had made to him at the time.

“This bed is ridiculous,” sighed Charles, looking over at him as he came back from the shower with a towel around his waist. “I overslept.”

“Overslept for what?” asked Pierre, crouching down to get some clothes out of his suitcase.

“I need to go pick up Arthur,” said Charles. “I’ve never done it before, it’s always our mum, so I was going to leave myself some time to find it. But I didn’t factor in not being close, for obvious reasons.”

“Want me to come?” hummed Pierre. “I’m not busy until 10, and I know where you need to go. There’s nice places to get breakfast around there. And didn’t you say he wanted to ask things about auditions?”

“I… yeah? Are you sure?” asked Charles, blinking at him. 

“It’s a bit less extreme than getting dragged out of bed at midnight, you know?” said Pierre. “I’ll come. They get really bitchy if you haven’t picked them up on time.” 

“If you’re sure,” said Charles. “Thanks for this.”

“Stop saying thank you or I’ll have to throw something at you,” sighed Pierre. “You got a train at midnight for me because I was scared and phoned you out of the blue. I owe you a lot more than going helping you pick your brother up.”

“It really wasn’t that big a deal,” said Charles quietly, as he got out of bed. “Plus your hotel room is a lot nicer, I’m not going to lie.”

“Only helping me for my nice hotel room. I see how it is,” sighed Pierre over dramatically. “You’ll have to never let Toto hear that, he wouldn’t be happy if he found out that hot boys were attracted to the room and came and distracted me.”

He could hear Charles laugh behind him as he pulled his hoodie on. “And how would Toto find out about this?”

“He’s on this floor. He’s the room across the hall,” grinned Pierre. “So watch out.”

* * *

“And you’re sure this is it?” Charles asked, as they walked up to the looming gates of the Paris Opera Ballet School.

“Pretty sure,” said Pierre, leading him around to the intercom. “I kind of spent a while here.”

“I thought it’d be a bit more grand, you know?” said Charles, pressing the intercom and explaining that he was here to pick up Arthur Leclerc. “The opera house is grand.”

“That was built in the 1800s. This was built in the 80s,” shrugged Pierre, following him inside when the gates swung open. “It’s nicer inside.”

“I hope so,” said Charles, going to wait near the door. “He better not take forever to get here.”

“He probably got ready an hour ago and has been waiting ever since. Nobody wants to stick around for Saturday class,” said Pierre. “What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow when he saw Charles looking at him.

“Nothing. It’s just weird thinking you went here,” said Charles. “It seems too stuffy for you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Pierre, nodding to the door as he saw a figure coming down the spiral staircase. “Is that him?”

“That’s him,” said Charles, and the way he beamed at the sight of his brother coming to the door made Pierre’s heart melt. 

“He doesn’t look that much like you,” said Pierre, and Charles just smiled. 

“No. He looks like Papa,” said Charles, wrapping his brother in a big hug the second he opened the door. 

* * *

“So you made them give you class footage?” Arthur asked him excitedly.

“Yeah. It’s your dancing so they have to give it to you if you ask,” nodded Pierre, cutting into his omelette and taking a bite. “And I sent that and got my parents to film some variations for me when I was at home. Went to my old studio and we filmed them there.” 

“Where did you send them to? I mean obviously Royal, but where else?” asked Arthur.

“Berlin, Vienna, American Ballet Theatre, English National Ballet, La Scala, Monaco, Nice, some places in Japan and Korea,” said Pierre, counting them off on his fingers. “And I auditioned and decided which I liked best based on what I saw where I was there.”

“Wow. He could have ended up in Monaco,” said Arthur, looking to his brother.

“I think he’s happy he didn’t,” said Charles, shrugging. “Too small.” 

“I like what I chose,” said Pierre, nodding. “It’s nice. And they don’t want me to change my style, they have Romain coach me and Esteban so we don’t lose it.”

“Romain Grosjean?” gasped Arthur. “What’s he like?”

“He’s nice. He helped me a lot when I went over, I didn’t really speak any English so he had to do things like my rental contract with me,” said Pierre, nodding. “He works you hard though. He likes jumps.”

“You looked tired in that one I watched,” agreed Charles. “He didn’t really let up.”

“He didn’t,” said Pierre, deciding it was better not to think about that particular class. “He knows me and Esteban don’t like jumps though, so he always makes us do more.”

“What was Prost like?” asked Arthur, and Pierre had to smile at how interested Charles suddenly looked. So Charles was an Alain Prost fanboy deep down, then. He’d have to remember that.

“A proper Professor. He’d sit at the front of class and just stare,” said Pierre. “And then somehow he’d be able to list off every single persons corrections one by one and remember them all for weeks after. He was very strict though.”

“More strict than Vergne?”

“Way, way more strict than Vergne. Vergne was soft, but he might have tightened up now,” nodded Pierre. “Prost sent a lot of people home for not fitting the standard. We had a lot smaller of a class than Vergne’s.”

“Vergne’s so strict now though!” laughed Arthur. “He tells everyone off.”

“It’s because he’s getting old,” nodded Pierre. “They get grumpy when they get old.”

“Charles is grumpy now he’s old,” grinned Arthur mischievously, looking to his brother. 

“And Pierre is older than me, so you can’t use that one,” said Charles, giving his arm a flick. 

“Yeah, but he’s not grumpy,” said Arthur. “You’re old at heart.”

“Am I now?” laughed Charles. 

“Yes,” nodded Arthur, messing up Charles’ hair. “You’re going to get wrinkles from being grumpy all the time.”

“Yeah, Charles,” teased Pierre. “Listen to your brother.” 

“You’re a terrible combination,” sighed Charles. “Sent to torture me. When do you need to be there to warm up?” he asked, looking to Pierre. 

“10am,” said Pierre, picking up his phone to check the time. “Shit, I’m going to have to go in five minutes,” he sighed, stuffing the rest of his omelette down. 

“He can dance, but he can’t keep to a schedule,” Charles grinned at his brother. “Typical frenchman.”

* * *

**Daily Mail**

**From pigeon toed to a ballet prodigy: Joy in Paris as Pierre Gasly named as the newest principal dancer of the Royal Ballet**

_When Pascale Gasly, then working as an orthopaedic nurse, asked a surgeon she worked with about how to fix her youngest son’s pigeon toes, she had no idea how much of an impact the answer would have._

_“He let me bring Pierre in to see him after work, and he said that we were fortunate, that it wasn’t from the way his bones were formed. He said that there was a muscular weakness there that ballet would help train out,” she explained last night, after watching the youngest of her five sons be named as a principal in one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the world. “Pierre wasn’t particularly keen. He wanted to play football instead.”_

_Fortunately, Pierre Gasly took to ballet like a swan to water, and it wasn’t long before his teacher demanded of his parents that due to his extraordinary talent, he be taken to audition for the oldest ballet school in the world, the Paris Opera Ballet School. “They were worried he might be too small when we took him to audition. It was very difficult to get him to sit down for a proper meal when he felt he could be dancing instead,” explained Pascale. “Fortunately they took a chance.”_

_Under the watchful eye of ballet master Alain Prost, Gasly blossomed. He was sent by Prost to compete at the Prix De Lausanne, the most prestigious competition in the world for pre-professional ballet students. He took the title comfortably, and caught the attention of ballet companies around the world. This was a double edged sword for the Paris Opera Ballet, who took pride in their training being crowned the best, but also had to contend with a number of companies seeking to poach their prize student._

_Gasly received an offer to work for the Paris Opera Ballet, but declined it, at the time citing a lack of opportunity for promotion. “There’s a lot of men already working here,” he explained at the time. “I’m junior and I’m also a little bit short for a male dancer, I’m 5’10” instead of 6 feet. I can’t see how I’m going to get the roles I need to be able to progress, which is very sad because obviously this is where I dreamed of working since I was small.”_

_The Royal Ballet announced his contract shortly after, and the frenchman moved to London. He quickly proved himself, becoming a First Artist by the end of his first year. Technical director Christian Horner, and lead physiotherapist Helmut Marko, who spotted him in Lausanne and personally led his audition, were completely unsurprised by his speedy progress through the ranks. “He’s been trained very well on top of his natural talent, and works really hard. It’s a combination that’s only going to end well,” explained Horner back in 2018, after Gasly was called to Japan to provide emergency cover for a performance of Romeo and Juliet._

_Gasly was quickly given more senior roles, and the positive reviews poured in. “Everything is perfect when you watch him,” said Ted Kravitz, lead ballet critic at The Guardian. “He’s not let himself slip into bad habits when it comes to technique as more senior dancers often do as they progress artistically. He’s extremely reliable and doesn’t really make mistakes. He’s a delight to watch.”_

_Last night, 22 year old Gasly performed alongside British ballerina Claire Williams in Paris’ Opera House, having been drafted in as an emergency following an injury in the touring cast. News of the replacement spread like wild fire, with Parisians eager to catch a glimpse of the ballet prodigy they lost to London. French President Emmanuel Macron was in the audience, as was Gasly’s former teacher and ballet legend Alain Prost._

_His promotion was announced at curtain call by Toto Wolff, Artistic Director of the Royal Ballet, garnering applause that could be heard well away from the theatre. “I don’t think he knew he was getting promoted. He seemed very shocked,” laughed Prost, in an interview with french media. “Of course I’m extremely proud. He’s always been very determined and pushed himself, ever since he was small.”_

_“I’m really happy,” Gasly said to BBC News following the performance. “I love my job and feel really lucky to be able to do it every day. My intention has been to stay in London for a few years now, I’m happy with the way my life is there, and getting promoted obviously helps me plan for that.”_

_Off the stage, Gasly shares a flat with three others who work at the Royal Opera House; musician Daniil Kvyat, costume designer Alexander Albon, and lighting engineer Max Verstappen. He frequently posts pictures of them on social media, and the three posted extensive messages of support for him following news of his promotion. “They’re very close, he goes and sees them a lot in his downtime,” said Royal Opera House stage manager Kimi Raikonnen, though he declined any further questions._

_“Pierre’s promotion allows both us and him to plan for the long term. He’s part of our strategy for the next decade,” explained Toto Wolff. “We’ve been behind him since we first brought him into the company, and he’s surpassed our expectations. He was also the most senior of our non principal men. It’s a choice that just made sense.” When asked if Gasly knew in advance of his promotion, Wolff laughed. “No. We’ve been trying to drop hints about it to him but I don’t think he picked up on them. He didn’t know.”_

_Gasly’s debut as principal will be opposite new signing Charles Leclerc in a new gender bending production of La Bayadere, choreographed by ballet legend Sebastian Vettel. Tickets are currently on sale at_ [ _https://www.roh.org.uk/_ ](https://www.roh.org.uk/) _ranging from £45 to £365._


	16. Chapter 16

”I told you, didn't I?” smirked Charles, following Pierre onto the plane. “You didn't believe me.”

“I honestly still think I’m dreaming,” said Pierre, shoving his luggage into the overhead locker before getting into his seat. “You’re going to have to pinch me again.”

“You cried on stage in front of your president last night. Does that not hurt more than a pinch?” teased Charles, getting into the seat next to him. 

“Shh. My brothers already had a great time making fun of that,” said Pierre, relaxing back into the seat.

“None of them dance, do they?” asked Charles.

“No. They all have real jobs,” hummed Pierre. “Both of yours do, right?”

“Kind of. Lorenzo did it as a hobby,” said Charles. “He never wanted to do it professionally. He went to normal school in the end.”

“Do your parents dance? That’s a lot of boys they convinced to do it,” said Pierre.

“No. My godfather did. He wasn’t that much older than us, but we all thought he was really cool, so we wanted to try,” said Charles. 

“So you stared dancing because you wanted to be cool like him,” grinned Pierre. “I bet he’s proud.”

“I hope he is,” smiled Charles. “What are your plans when you get home?”

“We’ve having a halloween party tomorrow, so I’m probably going to be getting stuff for that. Alex and Max like to go all out on the decorating,” said Pierre. “Do you want to come?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll text you our address,” nodded Pierre. “If you come for 9, we usually pre-drink and then hopefully don’t get too smashed to go out.”

“I see you’re taking your new role very seriously,” joked Charles.

“I am. That’s why I didn’t go out last night and I’m saving it for halloween,” said Pierre, smiling. “That’s moderation, right?”

“Very good moderation,” said Charles. “You’re sure that your friends wont mind me coming?”

“They wont,” said Pierre. “They’re really nice. I know we can be kind of stupid together - except Dany because he’s the smart responsible one out of us - but nobody’s a dick. Plus we’ve been kind of forced to invite Carlos so trust me, you’re going to be fine.”

“Carlos is the pianist, right? The spanish guy?”

“Yeah. He’s been leading on another one of our friends for a while, so we’re not really happy with him,” said Pierre. 

“Yeah. He was very flirty when I met him. Kind of weird,” said Charles, looking out of the window as the plane started towards the runway.

“That’s what he does,” nodded Pierre. “And that’s what he did to our other friend who fell for it, you know?”

“Yeah. I know who to watch out for then,” said Charles, letting out a yawn. 

“Don’t let him mess with you,” said Pierre. “Are you tired?”

“Yeah. Arthur has way too much energy,” admitted Charles. “He wanted to go around taking loads of pictures all day. I think I did 30,000 steps yesterday. And then he just wanted to ask me questions all night about England. I think he’s forgotten I’ve only been there a month.”

“He’s still got a year before he needs to think about it. You’ll be able to tell him plenty by then,” laughed Pierre. “If you’re tired, have a nap for an hour. Then you’ll have energy to deal with passport control. You’ll need it, they’re so slow.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” asked Charles, shifting and putting the hood of his hoodie up as he got comfortable. 

“Go for it. I ruined your sleep once already,” said Pierre. “It’s better than being tired.”

“Okay. If you’re sure. And stop feeling bad about waking me up,” yawned Charles, closing his eyes and sinking back into his seat. 

It wasn’t long before Charles’ head slipped onto his shoulder, and Pierre had to resist the temptation to put an arm around him to try and make him more comfortable.

* * *

“So how are you getting home from here?” Pierre asked, as he and Charles waited at baggage claim, watching the suitcases roll past. 

“I was just going to order a taxi,” said Charles. “You said yours is blue, right? Is it that one?” he said, pointing to one that had just come out.

“We can give you a lift if you want?” said Pierre, smiling as he spotted his suitcase, leading Charles over to go and grab it. 

“I don’t want to make you go out of your way,” said Charles, following him.

“It’s fine. Max is driving and any extra mileage he gets to do in a car he’s happy with, really,” said Pierre, lifting his suitcase off the carousel and double checking it was his before starting off towards the exit.

“Are you sure?” asked Charles. 

“Yeah. If you think you can handle his driving,” grinned Pierre. “Where do you live anyway?”

“West Kensington.”

“That’s fine. We’re in Hammersmith so it’s on the way,” nodded Pierre, grinning as he spotted his flatmates waiting for him. 

The second they caught sight of him, the three of them launched into a run towards him and tackled him into a tight hug, cheering for him. “You shit!” shouted Max, but he was laughing, as he lifted him off the floor and spun him around.

“Can’t send him fucking anywhere. Just a little trip to Paris?” laughed Alex, giving him a squeeze as he was set down.

“Just a little trip to Paris. ‘I don’t know why everyone is so interested’,” mimicked Daniil, laughing and going to pick up his suitcase for him.

“Shut up, I genuinely didn’t know,” laughed Pierre. “Toto was even taking the piss out of me for it. He said they’d been dropping a lot of hints and didn’t get why I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, we know. Lando found a youtube video of it,” said Max. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” said Pierre, nodding for Charles to come with them as they started to walk. “I said we’d give Charles a lift home. His little brother forced him to take him to watch me.”

“I wouldn’t say forced,” said Charles.

Pierre could see Max giving him a look, but in the end he just shrugged and nodded. “So where do you live then? You’re gonna be stuck taking the hump seat Pierre.”

* * *

“It’s fucking go time,” said Lando, sitting down on the beanbag in the corner of the room. “We need the details.”

“I thought you found a youtube video?” joked Pierre, reaching for another slice of pizza off the coffee table. George and Lando and Antonio had come over, and Daniil and Alex and Max were hanging off the edge of their seats, having restrained themselves from asking on the car ride home.

“Yeah, we know you cried,” said George. “Go on mate. From the beginning.”

“And with details. We want all the details,” said Alex. 

“Including why you were with Charles Leclerc in the airport,” said Max, pointing at him. “When the fuck did that happen?” 

“These are two different stories,” said Pierre. “You’ve got to pick which one you want first.”

“Wait. Charles Leclerc?” asked Lando in surprise. “What?”

“Yeah. Just walked out from the airport with him,” said Alex. 

“Promotion first. It’s more important, I think,” said Daniil firmly.

“Okay,” said Pierre, grabbing another slice of pizza. “So before the performance, Toto came to my dressing room and spoke to me. My parents were there and stuff but he said he wanted to come and say good luck. I’ve never seen him backstage before so I knew that was kind of weird.”

“Did he tell you then?” asked Antonio.

“No. Just said good luck and he’d see me after,” said Pierre. “I thought he meant at the hotel. His room was opposite mine, you know? That’s all he said to me before. And then we did the performance and it all went out, and we were doing the curtain call and he comes back out. Which he never does.”

“He hides up in a box, doesn’t he?” hummed Daniil.

“Yeah. And Claire was nudging me over to him, and I didn’t really get why, but she made us swap places so I’d be next to him,” said Pierre. “And then Prost comes out, which was _extra weird_ , because he had a huge falling out with Paris Opera. That’s why he retired from teaching.”

“Did he?” asked George in surprise.

“Yeah. I’ll tell you later because it’ll bore everyone else,” said Pierre. “But he comes out, and Toto starts saying how nice it was to see me performing in France, and Prost translated it for the audience and stuff, and then I think he kind of fucked up because he announced I’d been promoted before Toto did it.”

“That’s why you burst out crying before Toto said anything?” laughed Lando. “At least he didn't seem mad.”

“Yeah. I honestly don’t remember that much after it. I think my brain just stopped working, you know?” 

“Did it ever start?” grinned Alex. 

“Shh,” said Pierre, stretching his leg to kick him. “And then after, Toto brought me a contract to sign. And then asked if I genuinely hadn’t picked up on all the hints about it.”

“What Alex said just then might be true, you know,” hummed George.

“The only thing I ever got told was Charles basically telling me he thought I was going to get it, and that he’d been told that Sebastian and Christian put me forward for it,” said Pierre. “That’s the only thing I ever knew. And he’s not been in the company for very long, you know?” 

“When did he tell you that?” asked Max in surprise.

“The day I left for Paris. In the last rehearsal before,” said Pierre. “And he didn’t tell me a timeframe or anything. Just told me that he thought it would happen in the next year or so.”

“Interesting,” hummed Alex. “Tell us about how you ended up on a plane with him then.”

“His brother goes to the school I did. Apparently they like me there now?” hummed Pierre. “And he wanted to go watch me perform so he made Charles take him. Which I’ve now figured out is a bit less weird because I saw a lot of kids from the school at the stage door.”

“Wonder why they like him,” joked Lando, rolling his eyes.

“Well considering I went against the entire point of the school,” sighed Pierre, shrugging. “Anyway. He said his brother had questions and stuff about auditioning abroad, so asked if he could have my number and text me them.”

“Smooth,” said Antonio.

“Very smooth,” agreed Daniil.

“Anyway,” sighed Pierre. “I had a nightmare on Friday night. Kinda a bad one.”

“You’ve been getting those more since he upset you,” said Max.

“Yeah,” admitted Pierre. “And usually I’d go to one of you, but I was in a different country, you know? So I phoned him and asked if he was in France and he was really nice about it. Came to the hotel -“

“Smooth bastard,” sighed George.

“Came to the hotel and ended up staying because he missed the last train back to his hotel,” said Pierre. “Nothing happened,” he said, reaching to flick Max who gave him a look. “We just talked and fell asleep.”

“And then?” asked Lando.

“I showed him where the school was, because he needed to go pick his younger brother up. Went for breakfast with them,” said Pierre. “He texted me a congratulations after the performance and then he was just there at the same gate at the airport as me when I got there.”

“I expected more,” sighed Antonio.

“So where do you think this is going to end up going then?” asked Alex, raising an eyebrow.

“I think we’re friends now, which is nice,” hummed Pierre.

“For fucks sake,” groaned Max, as Daniil buried his face in his hands.

“How do you put up with him?” asked George. “I’m asking a genuine question.”

“He’s easy to live with, apart from this shit,” sighed Alex. 


	17. Chapter 17

”How many of these do you think we’ll need?” asked Pierre, picking up some fake spiderwebs.

“At least 5. We’re not being pussies on this,” said Max, putting four crates of beer in the trolley. 

Pierre sighed, throwing five packs of spiderwebs in, and some fake spiders to boot, walking alongside Max as he pushed it along. “How did we get stuck doing this?”

“Because if we do this trip, we don’t get stuck doing one later when Alex decides he needs something really specific,” said Max, shrugging. “You know this is the better choice.”

“You’re right,” agreed Pierre. “What was it last year? Fairy lights but they had to be bright white, not yellow?”

“It’s an important distinction, to be fair to him,” said Max. “Even though fairy lights are a fucking abomination.”

“I think they’re cute, personally, but I also don’t know shit,” hummed Pierre, throwing some crisps in the trolley as they walked past. “Dan’s coming tonight right?”

“Yeah. We had another date while you were away,” said Max. “We played mini golf.”

“I’m guessing you won since you’re telling me this?”

  
“Yeah,” grinned Max. “It was nice, you know. He’s really sensible, even if he acts like a dickhead at times.”

“Could say the same for you, really,” said Pierre. “Maybe that’s why you match so well.”

“He’s more mature than me, way more,” said Max. “I think that’s a good thing though. Means he knows when to call me on my shit.”

“Are you official yet? That has to be coming right?” asked Pierre.

“Not yet. He’s said he’s not seeing anyone else though, and obviously I’m not,” said Max. “I guess we’re on that kind of course.”

“Be ballsy and make a move,” said Pierre. “You’re you. It’s what you do.”

“Maybe I will,” hummed Max. “How about you? You said you invited Charles?”

“Yeah, I did. He said he was going to come,” said Pierre. 

“If he upsets you again, let me know. I’ll sort him the fuck out. Dan probably will too, he said you looked like a kicked puppy that one time,” said Max.

“Like I said, I’ve moved past it. Him and Esteban talked it out.”

“Wait. Esteban?” asked Max, stopping dead in the middle of the aisle. “As in Ocon?”

“Yeah. Apparently he says nice things about me behind my back?” hummed Pierre. “Who knew.”

* * *

“You know? I really didn’t factor this in when I said you should make a move,” said Pierre, as he painted the back of Max’s neck with green body paint.

“Why not?” asked Max. “I think it adds entertainment value.”

“Imagine Max’s kids asking how their parents got together, and he’s got to tell them he was dressed as fucking Shrek,” laughed Alex. 

“At least I’m not a sexy ‘insert profession here’ every year like Pierre. I’m keeping it interesting.”

“Remember when we thought we were going to go for a group theme?” sighed Daniil.

“We forgot,” said Pierre, shrugging as he moved to paint Max’s face. “Now you get to be a plague doctor without any of us ruining it. And shut up Max, Ratatouille inspired my sexy waiter costume, I thought you were proud.”

“I still think I’ve got the best costume,” grinned Alex.

“So you fucking should. It’s literally your job,” pointed out Max. “You went to uni for it.”

“And?”

“In fairness, he’s not exactly using that degree. He’s going as colour in general, it’s all body paint,” said Daniil.

“He’s going to be so fucking loud through that wall tonight,” sighed Pierre. 

“Not my fault nobody wants to try and compete with us,” said Alex, shrugging. “That’s a you thing.”

“Don’t make me break out Shrek sex jokes,” warned Max. “Don’t do it.”

“Please don’t do it,” agreed Daniil. 

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how likely do you think it is that Carlos is going to turn up in that stupid fucking Joker costume?” asked Pierre.

“11,” said Max. 

“And it’ll be the Jared Leto version,” sighed Alex. 

“You know, Charles told me that he pulled his usual shit when he met him,” said Pierre.

“Of course he did,” said Daniil. “He’s into twinks.”

“Don’t get mad,” Max grinned at Pierre. “He went for you, Alex, Lando, Antonio and Charles. Apart from the penis, there’s one thing in common there.”

“Not sure how I feel about being included in the twink club,” said Alex, shrugging. 

“Take it as a compliment. You’re getting included with me,” hummed Pierre.

“George agrees you’re a twink. We had a debate because you're tall, but we ended up agreeing,” said Max, laughing at the reaction on Alex’s face.

* * *

Pierre wouldn’t call himself drunk. Tipsy maybe - what was it Daniil said, pleasantly buzzed? Those were both right, a much better description than drunk. 

That didn’t stop him stumbling as he got up to answer to the door when the doorbell rang. “I thought you were meant to have good balance?” sighed Lando, reaching up to steady him. 

“He does when he’s sober,” said Max, laughing. “Haven’t you only had three?”

Pierre just grinned and gave him a finger before going to open the door. 

Charles looked _incredible_. Pierre had done a sexy police officer costume a few years ago, but he couldn’t pull it off the same way Charles was doing right now. The black looked amazing against his tanned skin, and it was tight in all the right places, and he was stood looking so fucking smug that Pierre really didn’t know what to do with him.

  
“Err,” said Charles, giving his bicep a quick squeeze. “Are you gonna let me in? Or do I have to pretend to have a warrant?”  
  
Fuck, Pierre wanted to be arrested so bad.

“Sorry,” he laughed, stepping aside so Charles could come in. “We’re all in the living room. Mostly we are anyway. Alex and George have gone to figure out how to cover Alex up enough to actually get in anywhere.”

“I was worried I’d be overdressed,” laughed Charles, watching Pierre lock the front door again.

“No, no! You look good,” encouraged Pierre, leading him to the living room.

“Managed to get back without falling over. That’s our boy,” laughed Max. 

Charles settled into conversation easier than Pierre had thought he would. He knew his friends could be a lot - most of them were funny, and vibrant, and that was why Pierre loved them so much, but he knew that it could be difficult to come in and match that. Charles didn’t seem to really have any issue though, easily falling into a chat about gaming with Lando and one about when Max did karting, and about the gym with Dan. 

This was _easy_ , and he seemed interested in what they had to say, and maybe it was the alcohol in his system, but it all made Pierre feel so, so warm. 

“Come on, I need to go get my ID,” he said to Charles when they all stood up to get ready to go out to the club. “Max will kill me if I forget it again and have to try and borrow someone’s.”

“You still get ID checked? Aren’t you in your 20s?” laughed Charles, but he followed him to his room anyway.

“Every single time,” sighed Pierre, opening the door. 

His room wasn’t particularly coherent in design, more of a mishmash of things he’d acquired throughout his time living in the UK that he liked and had just stuck together. None of it matched, but it all meant something to him, all of it spoke to him, and he loved it. Alex’s obsession with colour coordination and good fabrics be damned.

He could see Charles looking around interestedly as he dug through his coats, trying to figure out which one he’d left his drivers licence in the last time they’d been out because there was no way he was losing his passport on a night out again and having to go to the embassy, until Charles seemed to settle on looking at the huge collage of photos on his wall. 

Pierre let out a sound of triumph once he found his license, going over to where Charles seemed fixed on the pictures. It was a collection he’d been adding to ever since school, back before he’d had a phone with a decent camera, and it had been a massive pain in the arse to move over to the UK when he’d come, but it was worth it. He’d added and added to it each year, though sometimes some pictures needed culling (all the photos with Cat were now long gone, and he’d since filled in the holes they’d left with ones of him and his friends), and it was now expansive enough to cover half of the wall. 

“You knew Jules?” asked Charles, and Pierre had never heard him speak so quietly.

“Huh?” asked Pierre, moving to see which picture he was looking at. It was one of him back in his first year at school, just before he’d stepped on the stage of the Palais Garner for the very first time for the grand defile at the opening of the season. He was with five older boys, all of different ages, representing the different levels within the school. “Bianchi? He was in my defile group at school. You know him?”

“Yeah,” said Charles, and he suddenly looked sad. “What was he like?”

“Super nice,” said Pierre. “That picture was my first year, he was in his last. I remember I was really nervous about going on, I’d had a lot of criticism in classes and things. He sat me down and told me everybody gets those and not to worry about it, just to work hard.”

“He was like that,” said Charles, and Pierre reached out to wrap an arm around his shoulders. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, looking at Charles in confusion.

“I- yeah. I’m okay,” said Charles, stepping away from the picture at last. “You’re ready to go?”

“Yeah. I don’t have to lose my passport again now,” said Pierre, holding his license up. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” nodded Charles. “Let’s go. Don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

* * *

Maybe Pierre _was_ drunk now. 

He’d been straight to the bar once they’d got into the club, done two shots of something sickeningly sweet and brightly coloured with Max, then gone straight to the dance floor with his friends. He’d managed to drag Charles into dancing with him, which kept things fun as Max and Dan peeled off to go and snog in one of the booths, and George and Alex went off to the smoking area, and Daniil went to keep an eye on Lando as Carlos started to get more and more drunk. He’d been offered a few drinks by people trying to muscle his way in on him, but Charles had given him an excuse to get out of those too, happy to play protective over him and give them the eye to get them away from him.

“You’re so fun, oh my god,” said Pierre, stumbling slightly and letting Charles steady him as they walked to a booth to take a break. 

“Am I?” laughed Charles, and Pierre was definitely fucking drunk, because it hit him how much more sober than him Charles was at this point as he helped him into the booth. “Stay here. I’ll go get you some water because you’re going to have a killer of a hangover in the morning if you don’t stay hydrated.” 

Pierre could feel the music vibrating through him as he sat back, looking around the club. He’d always loved music, loved the way it could move him. He’d never been very good at creating it - he’d had to learn piano to a basic standard in school, learn to read sheet music since music and dance were inevitably interlinked, but it clearly hadn’t been where his talent had lay - but _interpreting_ it was probably the most fun part of dancing at all for him. It was why he liked dancing the classical ballets so much, with their rich scores giving him so much to work from, versus some of the stranger sounding shit that accompanied modern works.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when Lando came to join him, and Pierre could immediately see how upset he looked, and shifted to wrap his arms around him tightly. “Is he being a prick?” he asked, and sighed when Lando nodded.

“How have you ended up on your own? Charles isn’t being a prick right?”

“He’s gone getting me water. I think he can tell I’m a tiny bit drunk,” said Pierre, pointing over to where he could see Charles at the bar. “He’s a lot more sober than me.”

“That’s what you get for being a light weight. I’m okay to go if you need? I don’t want to third wheel,” said Lando.

“No, stay. It’s not like that with Charles any way. He’s not interested, I don’t think.”

“You’re so dumb sometimes. I love you a lot, but you’re living up to the blonde stereotype,” sighed Lando. 

“It’s dyed,” hummed Pierre. “Love you too though.”

Charles came back soon after, passing a water bottle to Pierre. “Are you okay?” he asked Lando, sitting down with them in the booth.

“I will be, yeah,” said Lando. “You’re not drinking either?”

“No. Better for me if I don’t,” said Charles, nudging Pierre to start on his water. “You’ll be hungover to shit if you don’t drink that.”

  
“I’m probably going to be hungover to shit anyway,” yawned Pierre, unscrewing the bottle cap and starting to sip on it anyway. 

“He will be,” said Lando. “You’re better this way though,” he told Pierre. 

“Someone’s flagging,” said Pierre, nodding to where Daniel was leading Max over. Max looked a mess, with him leaning on Daniel for support, being led over towards them.

“Shocking that doing a shots train didn’t work out well,” sighed Lando, getting up to go and tuck himself under Max’s other arm to help Daniel out. 

“I think it’s time we went guys,” asked Daniel, as he heaved Max into the seat. Pierre pushed the rest of his water over to him, reaching over to pull off his bald cap and ruffle his hair when he put his head on the table. “Dany’s gone finding Alex and George. Who got you that, Pierre?” he asked, nodding to the water.

“Charles,” said Pierre. “Maxy? You okay?”

“Right, good,” sighed Dan in relief, as Max just groaned.

  
“I’ll order an uber,” said Lando, getting his phone out. “What happened?”

“He just fell off a cliff. He was fine, drunk but fine, and then he just went. He’s been sick twice,” said Dan, rubbing over his face. “I don’t know if he’s just drunk a shit mix of stuff, or if he’s been spiked, but he was being bought drinks by people all night. I just thought they liked the costume, you know?”

“Oh fuck,” said Charles, eyes going wide and flicking to Pierre before looking at Max. 

“Yeah. Are you okay with him for a minute? I’ll go speak to one of the security guys,” said Daniel.

“We’ll look after Maxy,” nodded Pierre, continuing to stroke Max’s hair. “He usually holds his alcohol really well. He doesn’t get like this.”

“Yeah. I’ll give you a text when the Uber’s nearly here, then we can haul him out,” nodded Lando.

“Is he okay?” asked Alex when he, George and Daniil came over.

“He just looks really miserable at the minute,” said Lando, watching Max carefully.

“Bastards,” said Alex, climbing into the booth to give Max a tight hug. 

  
“We’ll fuck them up when he’s better,” said Daniil.

“Beat the fuck up out of them,” nodded Alex.

“Leave Dany and Max to that,” said Lando, sighing. “it’d be like sending Pierre to beat someone up.”


	18. Chapter 18

”You’re still okay?” Charles checked, as Pierre walked back into his room and flopped onto the bed. 

“Mmhmm. I’m not any worse than I usually get” said Pierre, shifting to get comfortable. “Max is still going in the bathroom though. It sounds fucking awful.”

“Jesus,” winced Charles from where he was sat on the edge of the bed. He’d been staring at the pictures on the wall again, and Pierre wished he knew why. He’d looked at it plenty of times since they’d come back. “Poor Dan. Is he okay with everything?”

“Yeah. He’s trying to figure out how to get him tested for anything someone could have spiked him with in the morning. And he’s going to speak to the police because of it, make sure that it’s documented somewhere,” sighed Pierre, looking up at him and furrowing his eyebrows. “You don’t look comfy there. Come lay down?”

“You sure you don’t mind?” checked Charles, shifting to lay down on top of the covers when Pierre just gave him a look. “It’s worrying. People were trying to buy you stuff all night. They were getting really, really pushy with you and trying to lead you away.”

“I guess. I didn’t have any though. Just the ones with Max and the stuff here,” said Pierre. “People were offering them to you too. There was that guy who said ‘bonjour’ to you in the middle of the night to try and get you over with him.”

“Yeah, but,” sighed Charles, furrowing his eyebrows in thought about something. He had the same expression that Daniil did sometimes, where he was cursed by being too smart, because it meant he knew too much and wouldn’t be able to let his brain rest. “You wouldn’t have been on your own right? If I hadn’t been there?”

“God no,” said Pierre. “It wouldn’t have been as fun because I’d have been watching Carlos be an asshole to Lando instead of just hearing about it. But no man gets left behind on our nights out, Dany or Lando would have ended up sticking with me. It’s the rules.”

“Good,” sighed Charles. “It just scares me. That could have been you.”

“It wasn’t though. What’s happened has happened and we’ll deal with it, and we know Maxy is safe and being looked after and nothing happened to him,” said Pierre. “There’s no point worrying about what it could have been. It could have been a lot of things. And your brain can come up with the worst things even though the chance is really really small of them happening.”

“It could have happened. The chances aren’t that small,” said Charles, sighing as he looked up at the ceiling. 

Pierre just looked at him before reaching out to stroke his hair, sighing at the smoothness of the strands between his fingers. “You need sleep. Not to stress about this. Dan’s smart and knows what he’s doing, it’s going to be sorted out.”

“I guess,” sighed Charles, rubbing over his face. He looked torn, like he knew that what Pierre was saying was right, but he couldn’t really bring himself to accept it fully. 

“So go and get out of your costume, it’s hot but it can’t be comfortable, and steal some of my shit to wear to bed, and go to sleep. Actually under the covers, since I don’t bite. Or Arthur will make fun of you being old again the next time you see him,” nodded Pierre. “Can’t have that, since I’m older than you. I refuse to be called old indirectly.”

* * *

The sleep Pierre got that night was nowhere near as restful as the one he’d shared with Charles in Paris.

  
Probably because Charles’ wasn’t restful either. Though Charles stayed asleep the entire night, he didn’t seem to be content in whatever he was dreaming about, shifting restlessly in the bed and a pained furrow forming in his brow as he woke Pierre up for the third time through the night. 

He didn’t know what exactly was upsetting Charles so much as he slept. Sure, he’d been on edge between what happened to Max, and had been fixated on the picture of him and Jules on the wall, but neither of those should cause him to be so upset, right? His reaction to talking about Antonio had been much better.

Pierre sighed, looking over at him again, before shifting closer to him and curling up around his back. He didn’t know why he felt the need to do it, but he was glad he did, since a bit of spooning seemed to settle Charles, like the warm heat against his back let him melt into the stupidly expensive mattress under him, picked specially to let Pierre try and keep his career going to age 35 without his body giving in. 

Charles was stupidly strong pound for pound, Pierre knew that. He’d been thrown up in the air by him like he didn’t weigh a thing when they danced. But in his arms right now Charles was soft, and pliant, and warm, and was thick lashes dusting over high cheekbones, and soft hair framing his face, and the scent of an aftershave that just radiated expensive. Not the hard won perfect combination of muscle and sinew and bone that gave him the raw power and magnetism he showed on the stage, just _soft_. 

And Pierre was intoxicated by it. This wasn’t the alcohol still getting shoved out of his system, this wasn’t his brain confusing the emotions he had to project on stage, had to create within himself and force out, for the ones he actually felt away from the spotlight, it wasn’t that stupid mistake again, and it hit him like a ton of bricks.

He _liked_ Charles. Maybe he even liked this Charles better than he liked Charles when he danced. Stage Charles was magnetic and sharp, this Charles was warm and hypnotising, making it feel like he was going to melt into the bed as he held him. 

Shit. 

Shit shit shit.

* * *

Charles was gone by the time he woke up the next morning, not even a little warmth left in the sheets where he’d been.

“He went to the gym. Said he was probably going to go to his place after, but that he’d text you and to let you sleep,” said an exhausted looking Dan when Pierre came into the kitchen.

“You haven’t slept yet?” asked Pierre, going to give him a squeeze.

“No,” sighed Dan. “He was worrying the fuck out of me, you know? He didn’t remember where he was for a while there. He’s coming around now, but it wasn’t great at the time.”

Pierre nodded, chewing his lip. “Well I’m up now. You should go and get some sleep, and I’ll keep an eye on him? I don’t mind you taking my room if you want to leave Max’s bed free.” 

“You’re sure?” checked Dan, looking over at him. 

“Yeah,” said Pierre. “I’ll go sit with him. You’re going to end up falling asleep right there if you don’t, and I’m awake anyway.”

“Thanks for this,” said Dan, looking at him appreciatively. “If you need me, come shout me. For anything you need.”

Pierre just smiled at him and waved him off, grabbing some toast before going to the living room where Max was curled up on the couch, finally off to sleep. Pierre climbed into the spot behind his bent knees, playing on his phone as Max snored away.

  
Instagram was one of those things that he enjoyed, but naturally wasn’t all that great at. It had become a place for his photos that he and Alex took when Alex was in one of his aesthetic moods, or where he reposted performance photos from the Royal Ballet or Royal Opera House, or occasionally put stupid videos of him and his friends on stories. It was useful though, and he’d got a couple of dance wear sponsorships because of his modest following on there.

His friends hadn’t been shy about posting pictures from last night. His feed was covered in pictures of them all, at varying points through the night,and he had his work cut out going through to click the heart at the bottom of each of them. 

  
As he got down his feed, there was a picture of just him that he didn’t remember being taken. It was from when they were in the club, and he was beaming as he looked into the camera from where he was dancing, eyes twinkling with the strobe lights, and at the top it had Charles’s handle and at the bottom, the caption ‘☀️’ with nothing else. He could see it had the most likes of anything that he’d seen be posted that night, Charles’ huge instagram following obviously not minding his presence on his feed.

He liked it himself, commenting ‘bonjour monsieur photographe!’ before being snapped out of his thoughts by Max shifting his legs. “Who’s that?” mumbled Max tiredly, and Pierre shifted out from behind his legs.

“It’s me,” hummed Pierre, going to crouch next to his face instead. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” sighed Max, opening his eyes. “Where’s Dan?”

“I made him go sleep instead of staying up and stressing,” said Pierre, ruffling his hair. “Only fifteen, twenty minutes ago though.”

“Can’t believe he fucking stayed,” mumbled Max, moving to sit up. “Do we have any paracetamol? My head is fucking killing me.”

“He was worried about you. It wasn’t fun seeing you like that,” said Pierre. “Give me a second, yeah? And I’ll come back with some,” he said, getting up and going to the kitchen. He came back with some paracetamol and some water, offering it up to Max before sitting next to him and cuddling into his side. “Other than your head, do you feel okay?”

“I guess. Just tired and I don’t remember shit,” said Max, swallowing down the paracetamol. “The fuck happened?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Pierre. “Charles was trying to sober me up a bit, and Lando came and sat with us, and then we just saw Dan hauling you over. You were fucking gone,” he said, giving him a squeeze. “Said you just suddenly went, one minute you were fine and the next you weren’t.”

“Shit,” said Max, sinking back into the couch cushions. “How fucking embarrassing.”

“Not your fault. He thinks you got spiked,” said Pierre. “I’ve seen you get fucking trashed. Remember Germany? I’ve still never seen you as bad as last night. I went for a wee and you were just constantly dry heaving. And Dany and Charles carried you to the Uber.”

“Who the fuck would want to spike me though?” asked Max. “Am I still green, by the way?”

“Evil people,” said Pierre, shrugging. “No. Shrek’s gone. I feel like you’ll probably want a shower though, he didn’t get it off 100%.”

“Later,” sighed Max, nodding. “Really though. I remember getting there, them not believing Monaco was a real country when Charles showed his ID, and going in, and then nothing.”

“At least you remember the funniest part,” nodded Pierre, giving him a squeeze. “It was kind of scary. You don't get like that. He said people kept getting you drinks and stuff. He didn’t remember anyone specific.”

“People were just too into Shrek, I guess,” said Max, giving him a squeeze back. “Stop stressing. I’m okay. You all got me out of there and Dan fixed me up in the end.”

“You’re going to be telling everyone not to stress all day, if that’s what you want,” sighed Pierre. “It was weird. Not having you to come and chat stupid shit to after we got back. That’s our ritual.”

“And Alex’s ritual is having a shag and Dany’s is running away from the noise of Alex shagging,” agreed Max. “We’ll do it tonight instead. I saw Charles leaving your room this morning so I’m sure you’ve got good things to say.”

“Nothing happened. I’m kinda close to a mental breakthrough though so we’ll do it tonight,” said Pierre.

“Mental breakthrough, or mental breakdown?” checked Max.

“Breakthrough. Might be a breakdown when I sort the breakthrough out though,” sighed Pierre.


	19. Chapter 19

”I think Dan’s going to end up sleeping for a solid 12 hours, honestly,” whispered Pierre, quietly closing his bedroom door after peeking in. “He hasn’t moved since I last looked.”

“It’s your stupidly expensive mattress. It does that to people,” said Alex. “Still can’t believe how much you paid for it.”

“Worth every penny,” said Pierre, going to sit down on the couch with Alex. “Is Max still moping after his blood test?”

“I think he’s fallen asleep after a good mope. I really wasn’t expecting him to be as scared of needles as he is,” said Alex. “I guess that’s why he’s never gone for a tattoo.”

“Was he scared?” asked Pierre in surprise. “I didn’t think he was scared of anything.”

“Well apparently it’s needles. He was looking very flight or fight the second the nurse came near him,” said Alex. “He’s lucky he’s got good veins and she was quick.”

“Huh,” said Pierre, shifting to cuddle up with Alex. “Would never have guessed.”

“So. You,” said Alex, wrapping an arm around him. “You’ve been stuck in your head today, haven’t you?”

“I-,” started Pierre, then he looked and saw the look on Alex’s face. “Maybe. Yeah.”

“Maybe? You don’t usually have enough in your head to get lost in, but you’ve been walking around looking like you’re actually thinking today,” said Alex. “What’s going on?”

“I think sometimes,” said Pierre, before sighing. “I think I like Charles.”

“Err, yeah?” said Alex, looking at him in confusion. “We know?”

“Well I didn’t until last night,” sighed Pierre. “I realised last night when he was in bed with me. I like him better like that than I like him on stage. And I really like him on stage.”

“You know what? I’m not going to ask how you didn’t know,” sighed Alex, giving him a tight hug. “We could all tell, basically.”

“How could you tell though?” asked Pierre. “Genuinely. What am I missing?”

“You actually invited him out with us. You phoned him at midnight in a foreign country. You’ve been going beyond the ballet fanboy thing you and George normally do when you talk about him,” said Alex. “Plus I saw how you were looking at him when he showed up in that costume. It wasn’t rocket science.”

“When you put it like that, it makes sense I guess,” sighed Pierre. “I dunno. I just thought it was all down to me liking stage him. And that’s not real, you know? Like how I’m not real when I do that shit.”

“Listen. I’m going to be really honest with you here,” said Alex, turning to look at him. “The fact you’re able to do what you do, where you manage to shut off your actual emotions on stage and create a completely new set to do what you need to, is part of why you’re so fucking good at your job. You can partner anyone, and sell that you love them, no matter how much you actually hate them. That’s why you always get landed with difficult partners. But it’s not a thing most people can do.”

“Everyone does that,” said Pierre. 

“No they don’t. Cat can’t do it, that’s why she ended up kicking you down those stairs. Charlotte couldn’t do it with Charles. And George has tried so many times to ask me how the fuck you do it, because it’s a really good thing in your job. You’re not getting lost in it, you still keep all your stuff clean apparently but we all know that’s technical shit I don’t care about,” said Alex. “It ends up with too many of your partners ending up being into it, but it’s the thing everyone goes on about at work when they’ve watched you. It’s why the shit Cat said about you spread so fast.”

“Maybe. Maybe you have a point,” sighed Pierre.

  
“I do have a point. Esteban can do it too, to be honest. Maybe all those years of emotional trauma at school you guys went through had a silver lining,” said Alex. “Obviously, we know you. We know the difference between on stage Pierre and off stage Pierre. Not gonna lie, it confused the fuck out of me at first until George vented to me about not being able to do what you can do. But I’ve seen off stage Pierre fancy Charles as well. I’ve probably seen it more.”

“I’m not accidentally leading him on, am I? Like I did with Cat?” checked Pierre. “That really didn’t turn out well.”

“No, I don’t think you are. I think he’s seen plenty of off stage Pierre now. Post nightmare, you’ve been and met his brother, he saw you last night. And you still liked him in all of those,” said Alex. “I think that because of work getting really busy for you, and all the other shit that’s been going on, you’ve been having to shut off your actual emotions so often that you’ve not had a chance to work through them. But you did have a chance last night, because you were with him for almost the entire time and weren’t at work.”

“It was when I ended up spooning him that I realised,” admitted Pierre.

“Yeah. There you go,” said Alex. “You wouldn’t have done that unless you actually liked him. You’re too precious about your sleep and not messing yourself up. You’ve just got to let yourself work through this shit. I think he likes you too.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. What dickhead would go to your hotel in the middle of the night if he didn’t like you? From what he said last night, it clearly wasn’t a booty call,” said Alex. “And he really looked after you last night. He was asking Dany when you went to get changed whether you were alright or not, and was pretty scared that people had been offering you shit all night.”

“He kept being worried about that later,” said Pierre, sighing and nodding. “Okay.”

“He seems nice. Way more put together than what google told us when we had that stalk of him. As long as he stays how he was last night instead of how he was when he upset you, I don’t think you need to worry about hurting yourself with this one,” said Alex.

“We talked about when he upset me. He thinks I need therapy for the stuff it was over. He says he has numbers for people who speak french,” admitted Pierre. “He basically said that that night in Paris that he would go more in depth but he wanted me to get sleep before I was on stage the following day.”

“You know what? I fucking love him now. Fit, speaks french and also recognises our ‘ballet dancers are all fucking mental’ joke isn’t actually a joke but also gets theres a time and place? Marry this man right fucking now,” said Alex, throwing up his hand in a mock cheer. “Get the fucking numbers. Before I end up getting them off him and sticking you on the phone to them anyway.” 

“I didn’t think you’d have been this happy about it,” said Pierre, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m fucking buzzing mate. It’s only what we’ve been saying for ages, isn’t it? Especially with your nightmares starting back up,” said Alex. “Get on it. Or I swear to god I will. You know Max and Dany would fully support me doing it as well. He doesn’t know any who speak dutch or german does he, and we can throw Max to them so he can stop pretending he isn’t more fluent in English than me whenever we try to get him to go?”

“You’re way happier than I thought you’d be. I thought you’d have been mad he thought I was nuts,” said Pierre. 

“No. If he was some random person I’d have been mad. But if he knows a french speaking therapist, that’s probably because he’s been or is going to a french speaking therapist,” pointed out Alex. “So he’s speaking from experience instead of just being a dick and that’s fine with me.”

“He has. He said he had nightmares after his dad died, and he went to therapy and they went away,” said Pierre. “He definitely wasn’t having happy dreams last night though. He didn't wake up or anything, but he didn’t seem like he was enjoying it.”

“Good for him. Follow that example mate,” said Alex. “Last night was stressful for everyone. Except Max who’s stupidly chill over probably getting drugged, for some reason? So cut him slack on nightmares for that.”

“Max is way too relaxed over it,” agreed Pierre. “He was more embarrassed about Dan seeing him like that than anything else this morning.”

“Like you, Max is fucking dumb. Different kind of dumb, but still dumb,” said Alex. “That’s probably also why he was moping. Feels bad for keeping Dan up.” Pierre opened his mouth to speak, but was then cut off as Alex started up again. “And don’t you say anything, Mr ‘ooh I think Charles won’t like me because I woke him up and he chose to come’. Two peas in a fucking pod.”

“Anyone who didn’t know you loved the shit out of us would think you were mean, you know,” said Pierre, giving him a squeeze. “Love you anyway though.”

“I just call you all on your shit. Same when you call me out if I’m not being very understanding with George when he’s on a stressful schedule or injured or something since I don’t actually have the same kind of thing in my job,” said Alex. “It’s easier to see all this stuff from the outside. Or inside I guess with you, since you get it.”

“Between us all, I reckon we could make one actual perfect person,” nodded Pierre. “Maybe.”

  
“Definitely. Imagine - your athleticism, combined with my emotional intelligence, and Max’s lack of giving a shit and ability to be as blunt as he wants to dickheads, plus Dany’s fucking brain and fighting skills? That’s Captain America level shit. The UN would be trying to get us on side.”

“Combining us might be a war crime, now you say it. We should probably avoid ever going down that route,” said Pierre. “This flat is powerful enough with us all combined, really,” he said, looking over as the door opened and Daniil walked in.

“Pierre? I have a serious question,” said Daniil, sighing as he went to sit down on the other side of Pierre on the couch.

  
“How serious are we talking?” checked Alex. “We’ve somehow just managed to avoid an emotional breakdown over him becoming self aware. Is this the right time?”

“It’s a ballet question,” said Daniil. “You’re fine for that, right?”

“Yeah? You actually have a question about ballet?” said Pierre in confusion.

“Kind of. In La Bayadere, do you love Gamzatti, or does whoever Charles is playing love Gamzatti?” checked Daniil. 

“What dimension have I somehow just been teleported into?” sighed Alex.

Pierre just tutted. “It’s a russian classic, Dany! We didn’t even have it over here for decades because the russians didn’t want to share. How do you not know this?”

“Just answer the question,” sighed Daniil.

“Nobody loves Gamzatti. She comes in and forces my man into marriage with me, I try to stab her, she kills me. And then the gods get really pissed off on my behalf and burn the temple down during their wedding.”

“Okay. Way more detail than I asked for, but okay,” said Daniil. 

“Got to make sure you understand your russian classics, Dany. Wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself if you get stuck talking to Shwartzmann for too long,” said Pierre, shrugging. “He might not think you’re cultured.

“Why is any of this relevant?” sighed Alex.

“Cat’s apparently playing Gamzatti. They finally cast it and I was playing for her practice today,” said Daniil. “At least you should avoid getting dropped down the stairs this time, you’ll just get killed instead.”

“Ah,” said Alex. “Well shit.”

Pierre just shrugged. “Hopefully she’ll cheer up at getting to plot my death.”


	20. Chapter 20

**royal opera hoes**

**light of your lives: i lived bitch**

**baldo: no picture of you pretending to be on oxygen? i thought you were on my level but apparently not**

**light of your lives: you’re right i’m sorry**

**baldo: so you should be**

**light of your lives: anyway turns out i was indeed d r u g g e d**

**light of your lives: we can now silence any rumours of me just being a pussy**

**albono: wtf so the police have been in contact? we are going to need more details**

**ultimate fairytale prince: agreed… did they catch the bastards or not**

**light of your lives: nope**

**light of your lives: doubt they will**

**light of your lives: they got reports of someone else getting spiked too so there’s still ongoing investigations but nobody died so there’s bigger things to deal with tbh**

“So there’s probably nothing they can do?” sighed Charles, as he sat on the floor and started massaging at his calf. “That’s pretty fucking useless.”

“Yeah,” said Pierre, laying down on his stomach and bending his knees to stretch his turnout. “Max doesn’t seem particularly bothered. He said they told him someone else was spiked that night too though, so they’re going to keep looking.”

“God,” sighed Charles. “Thank fuck he’s okay though.”

  
“His text telling everyone was that we can stop people thinking he’s just a pussy. He’s fine,” said Pierre, nodding. “He said to thank you by the way.”

Charles just shrugged, working a knot out of his calf muscle. “He remembers any of that?”

“Well no. Just knows what we told him,” said Pierre. “He’ll probably tell you himself later, he’s working today and he’s gonna meet me after this. He’s wiring things, which he likes, so he’ll be in a good mood.”

“I’ll have to say hi then,” said Charles, looking over when Sebastian came into the room. “I’ve got to stay and choreograph with whoever’s doing Gamzatti after though.”

  
“Ah,” said Pierre, swallowing as he got up. “I’m sure that’ll be interesting. She’s my ex girlfriend.”

* * *

Pierre could tell that something wasn’t quite right as he danced with Charles. He wasn’t as fast as he normally was, and things seemed to take more effort, and he seemed more tired than he should be after a single run through. He wished he could pinpoint it, figure out how to do things to prevent whatever this was from getting any worse, but Charles was staying mum on it, denying the few more minutes Sebastian was trying to give them between run throughs, obviously also having caught on that something wasn’t quite right.

“Are you okay?” Pierre whispered to him during a balance, but Charles didn’t answer him, instead just clenching his jaw and carrying on. 

It was when they separated and Charles did his jump section - the same one that Lewis had gone down on, Pierre remembered grimly - that it finally hit. Charles landed, stayed still rather than starting on the next 540 jump, and then seemed to crumple to the ground, clutching at the small of his back. 

“Shit,” groaned Sebastian. 

“Is it just your back? Nowhere else?” checked Pierre, rushing over to take Charles’ weight and lower him completely down safely. He got a nod in response. “Can we get Dr Marko in?” he asked Sebastian. “It’s his back.”

“That knob?” hissed Charles, eyes scrunched with pain as Sebastian went to go and get him. 

“That knob. He’s really fucking good at the physio part, even if he’s a knob in general,” murmured Pierre. “He’s fixed my back a stupid amount of times. Better than anyone else at it, and I really don’t like him as a person.”

“I hope he’s that good, because this really fucking hurts,” winced Charles.

“He’s that good. Is your car here or did you walk? Just so me and Max can figure out how to get you home when he’s done clicking you back into shape or whatever the fuck it is he actually does,” said Pierre, smoothing his hair off his face. 

“Walked,” said Charles, groaning as he shifted. 

“Fortunately, we drove. We’ll drive you home and get you set up in there, yeah?” said Pierre, looking over as a very stormy looking Christian Horner walked in, flanked by Helmut Marko. 

“Pierre,” said Christian, beckoning him over as Marko went to Charles. It took a lot of willpower for Pierre to force himself to leave Charles’ side, but he did, going over to speak to Christian in a corner. “What the hell keeps going wrong with the jump sequence?”

“I don’t know,” whispered Pierre. “It’s hard? But I’ve seen him do it loads of times now. Something was up with him since he came in today, I don’t know if it just aggravated it.”

“Right,” sighed Christian, looking over to see where Marko was up to. “We’re going to run your stuff. Make the most of what rehearsal time you’ve got left, so I can go and say something positive to Toto by the end of the day.”

“Which one?” asked Pierre with a sigh, glancing back over at Charles.

“He’ll be fine. He looks more comfortable already,” said Christian. “Show me what we’ve got on your end for the final scene as the temple goes down.”

“I…,” said Pierre, looking over to check Charles again, and he had to admit that Christian was right. Marko was pressing deep into his back, and Charles didn't seem quite as tense, and he’d managed to shift over to the side of the studio. “Okay. Yeah.” 

The final scene of him haunting the temple was one that they hadn’t worked on much, admittedly. It was a difficult one to do without a Gamzatti to haunt, and it was even harder now without a Solor to tempt away from his own wedding. But Pierre worked through it, focusing on Christian’s nods at his port de bras and jetes instead of Charles’ moans of pain in the corner. He let his eyes flick to the door as it opened, spotting Max being beckoned in by Marko as the older man left. 

“Excellent Pierre, I’ll take less of a split on that jete if you can get more height that way,” said Christian, getting his attention back, and Pierre tried what he said. “Better. More ghostly.” 

Pierre carried on repeating the section, taking on board Christian’s input, until the clock finally hit 4 and Christian said he could stop on his way out to tell Cat that her session would be cancelled. “Any better?” he asked Charles, who just nodded and lay there with his eyes shut.

“I’ll go get the car to the front of the building. Do you think you can get him down there on your own or do you want me to come back up?” asked Max.

  
“Should be able to. I’ll text if there’s an issue, yeah?” said Pierre. “We’ll take the lift,” he said, watching Max go before moving closer to Charles. 

“That hurt so fucking bad, shit,” sighed Charles. “I don’t know what he did. It hurt like crazy, but then all the pain dulled down.”

“He does that, yeah,” said Pierre. “It works though. I promise,” he said, moving to crouch at his side. “Are you okay for me to lift you? I’ll get you downstairs.”

Charles nodded, and with that Pierre carefully scooped him up. He was lighter than he expected really, not much heavier than the girls he was used to lifting, and he managed to get him to the door without issue. “Careful,” Christian warned him after opening it for him, pausing his conversation with Cat. “If you get yourself injured too, we’re done for.” 

“I’ll be fine,” reassured Pierre, before carrying on to the lift.

* * *

“The parking garage is just under there,” explained Charles, wincing as they went over a speedbump. 

“Very fancy,” hummed Max, making the turn that Charles told him to, and then putting in the code that he was told to at the keypad at the entrance. “How much are you paying that you’re able to afford enclosed parking?”

  
“Way too much,” sighed Charles.

  
“Is it more compared to Monaco? Or less?” asked Pierre, looking around as they drove in. “Holy fucking shit. There’s a _Ferrari_ right there.” 

  
“Shit, there is,” said Max, eyes widening. “Look at that fucking beauty. Remember that video of the guy in love with his car and shagging the exhaust? That’s a car worth being like that over.”

“You didn’t tell us you lived somewhere fancy,” Pierre said, looking to Charles who just shrugged, a light blush over his cheeks. “I feel underdressed even in the parking.”

“It’s just flats,” said Charles, sighing. “It’s less expensive than Monaco though, to answer your question.”

“Monaco that one more bouncer now knows is a real country,” said Max, parking up in a spot near the lift upstairs. “Come on, rich boy. I owe you one, don’t I?”

“Don’t try and argue with him,” Pierre warned as Max got out and opened the door to Charles. “He’s too stubborn for you to change his mind. He’s decided he’s doing it.”

“Yep,” grinned Max. “Lets get you up there.”

* * *

“Alex would jizz over this place,” Pierre said, looking around as Max carried Charles through to his bedroom.

Charles’ flat was immaculate, everything inside decorated in shades of white and pale blue. If it weren’t for all of the photo frames full of pictures, Pierre would have thought it was a show home with how everything matched perfectly. There were signs of life though, thick blankets draped over the back of the couch, and a PS4 controller on the coffee table, and as they went into the bedroom, there were some dirty clothes in the basket.

“He would. We can’t tell him,” said Max, carefully setting Charles down on the bed. “He’ll start nagging us to paint the living room again if he sees this.”

“He’ll start nagging us to get a new flat if he sees this. How do you want the cushions, Charles? One under your back, or no?” asked Pierre, grabbing the blankets to make sure he was comfortable.

“You really don’t have to do all this,” said Charles, looking embarrassed by the attention.

“We kind of do. You don’t know the special kind of hell we’ll go through if you’re not better on time and Pierre is stuck trying to pretend he’s in love with Esteban,” said Max.

  
“It’s true,” grinned Pierre. “So tell us how you want everything. We’re experienced in this shit now. Well Max is, I’m usually stuck in your position.”

Once he’d got Charles comfortable in the bed, Pierre went to the kitchen to find the painkillers that he’d been told were there. He found them, and was in the living room when he took a second to look at the picture frames all over the walls.

Most of the photos featured either a man who had the same smile as Charles, and the same eyes as Arthur, who Pierre assumed must have been his father, or Jules Bianchi. There were ones with Jules where he and Charles both looked extremely young, which must have been before Jules was sent to Paris to learn his art, right up to what looked like a few years ago. Jules didn’t look quite as bright as Pierre had known him in those, thinner and more tired, and he couldn’t help but have a bad feeling about Jules’ change in appearance. 

There were a few of who Pierre knew to be a tiny Anthoine, and that was where Pierre immediately decided it was best to stop looking, to stop trying to figure those photos out. 

“Got you your painkillers,” he chimed as he went into the bedroom, seeing Charles half asleep.

“I’ll take them in a bit,” he mumbled, peeking out over the top of the covers. “You on your way home?”

“Will be in a minute. Max has gone touching up that Ferrari probably. You’ll have to apologise to the owner for us,” said Pierre, setting the painkillers on the bedside table.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” yawned Charles.

“Look after yourself, okay? Don't be stupid,” said Pierre, looking at him for a moment before leaning down to wrap him in a hug. “Please get better and don’t make me dance with Esteban. I know he was secretly nice about me to you, but it’s still a… complex relationship.”

“I’ll try,” laughed Charles, giving him a hug back. “I’m glad you prefer me as a partner.”


	21. Chapter 21

**charles: sorry to bother you i know you’re probably busy with principal stuff**

**charles: i know marko is good at his job and stuff but he’s really weird**

**charles: is there any chance you or one of your friends can come over and be with me while he’s got me shirtless on a bed later**

**charles: haha dw if not**

**pierre: i’ve just finished a costume fitting and i’m done for the day now, i’ll come :)**

**pierre: i think dan is coming to learn anyway too! the guy max is not not seeing**

**pierre: text me the code to your fancy garage thanks and please don't let the rich people who in the same building as you set my shitty car on fire… i’m still making payments…**

“Yeah, that’s the car he threatened to stick his dick in,” said Pierre, getting out of his car and going over to Dan who was staring at the Ferrari that was still parked in the exact same spot.

“I don’t blame him. I’m this close to fucking mounting it,” joked Dan, creating a tiny space between his index finger and thumb. “Jesus christ, look at it. Is that a Monaco plate? It’s not Charles’, is it?”

“I don’t think so. We don’t get paid enough for that,” said Pierre. “Are you stuck waiting here until Marko shows up?”

“Yeah. You head up. Make sure he’s mentally prepared,” said Dan. “I’m probably going to stare at this car until he turns up.”

“Don’t stick your dick in it,” warned Pierre, going to the lift. 

Pierre looked in the mirror as he went up to Charles’ floor from the lift, running his fingers through his unstyled hair. Today had been meant to be an off day, really, but Alex had been at his wits end when it came to one of his costumes for La Bayadere, so Pierre had gone in with him and let himself be used as a living mannequin. It was probably one of the only times he’d been snuck into the sewing rooms that nobody had dared say a thing against it.

“Hey,” said Charles, opening the door for him. He certainly looked a lot better than when Pierre had last seen him, but there was still a strange way he held his posture, like he was trying to avoid moving his back too much. 

“You look a bit better,” smiled Pierre. “Dan’s downstairs perving over the Ferrari. Marko’s not here yet.”

“Dan and Max really suit each other,” said Charles, shaking his head. “What were they even doing to it?”

“Just staring, I think. Walking around it and staring,” laughed Pierre, following him through to the living room. “How have you been?”

“Bored,” said Charles, going to sit on the couch, holding himself carefully as he did so. “How have rehearsals been?”

“Boring. I’ve been working on the Gamzatti stuff with Cat. It’s less awkward than Romeo and Juliet, but that’s hard to outdo,” said Pierre. “Should be more fun when you’re back. Maybe you’ll make it less tense.”

“A situation that _I_ can make less tense?” asked Charles, raising an eyebrow. “Never thought I’d hear that.”

“Mhmm. Good luck with that one,” said Pierre, looking over when he heard a knock at the door. “I’ll go get that. You can mentally prepare yourself for Marko.”

* * *

“Remember, no heavy lifting for another week. You need to let the muscles continue to heal,” warned Helmut Marko, gathering up the remainder of his things. “Following that, you should be okay to come back to work.”

“Another week?” sighed Charles, from where he lay boneless, face down on the couch.

“It’s another week or being stuck out for a month,” said Marko, before leaving, Dan hot on his heels.

“Another fucking week,” mumbled Charles, as Pierre shifted to sit next to his feet.

“It’ll be okay. His job is to get you back to work as quickly as possible, you know? So if he says you need a week, you really do need that week,” said Pierre. “He really crackled your back, huh?”

“Yeah, did you hear it?” groaned Charles. “It feels good now. Just don’t want to move.”

“It was loud,” agreed Pierre, glancing around the living room, Jules’ eyes on him from every wall. “Can I ask a question?”

“Go for it.”

“Who is Jules to you? You’ve got so many pictures of him.”

Charles stayed quiet for a moment, face still buried in the couch, before saying, “My godfather.”

“The cool one? Who you all wanted to dance like?” asked Pierre interestedly. “That’s Jules?”

  
“Yeah. That was Jules,” murmured Charles. 

“You must be really close,” hummed Pierre. “How’s he doing these days?”

“I… uh,” said Charles, voice tailing off. “Tell me what you know about after he left school. I’ll update you from there.”

“He didn’t get into the Ballet,” said Pierre, patting the back of Charles’ calves absent mindedly. “And he got a job in Nice instead. And he went down there. And I heard he retired or something because he was ill not long after he went?”

  
“You really don’t know?” asked Charles quietly.

“Uh, no?”

“Jules died,” said Charles quietly. “A few months after he came home. He had a mental breakdown after not getting in. He went to Nice, but he was never well enough to start work. Had an eating disorder and some other things and that spiralled.”

“I didn’t know,” said Pierre quietly. “I’m so sorry Charles.”

“Yeah,” said Charles quietly. “There was an investigation. At your school, because he came home with all the problems. I’d assumed you knew about it because of that.”

“I…” said Pierre, thinking. “I know they stopped with some of the worse advice. About how to not gain weight. But nobody ever said why, and they still kind of said it to be honest, just less directly. I don’t think anyone knew more than what I said.”

“That’s where a lot of the anger from Anthoine came from,” admitted Charles. “When I blamed you and Esteban. I thought that things might have been learned, that it was avoidable.”

“And then you figured out they don’t care about anything more than getting five or six dancers at the end out of the thirty they took?” asked Pierre. “That to them mental health is just something to make your art more interesting and nothing more?”

“Yeah. And that terrifies me. With Arthur being there,” said Charles.

Pierre nodded, reaching over to give Charles’ arm a squeeze. “You know what to look out for though. Was he already there when -“

“Yeah,” sighed Charles. “He wanted to be just like him.”

Pierre nodded slowly, looking at him. “You went to Monaco, right? With Charlotte?”

“Yeah,” said Charles quietly. “I wanted to audition for Paris. To be like Jules. But my dad got really ill, and we knew that however long it took to actually end, he wasn’t going to survive it. I wanted to stay close to home. I lived at home the entire time.”

“I bet you’re glad you didn’t, knowing what you do now,” said Pierre, looking towards Charles’ arm and sliding his hand down into his. It felt strangely intimate, despite how much physical contact they had when they were dancing, and Pierre felt his heart flutter when Charles’ fingers curled against his own.

“Monaco wasn’t particularly good for me though. Too small,” said Charles into the cushions. “Dad died not long after Jules did. Right before Lausanne. And I managed to keep myself together until I graduated, because school was so structured and focused and exhausting that I didn’t have the time or energy to think about things outside it.” 

“I get that,” admitted Pierre.

“I know you do. That’s how you did well enough to get out,” murmured Charles. “Then I got signed. And Monaco’s ballet company isn’t as big as here. You’ve constantly got a goal post ahead here, that you can throw yourself towards. There’s big lulls in the season at home. And all of a sudden I had time to think about the shit I’d avoided thinking about.”

Pierre just nodded, staying quiet. 

“And I had money. My inheritance. I moved out, got a flat, and it was downhill from there. I could do anything I wanted, but all I wanted to do was forget about the shit my brain was suddenly stop thinking. And I got into a lot of stupid shit. Cocaine, mainly. And people knew, but suddenly I was energetic again, and could dance for days on end without sleeping, and I lost weight, and it just worked well for what they wanted from me.”

“As long as you’re beautiful they don’t really care how you get there,” murmured Pierre.

“Right. I’d be backstage snorting lines, it wasn’t a secret. And coke used to make me feel like I was on top of the world, like I could do anything. And at the time it kind of happened like that. I was doing a lot of guesting performances. I met Giada when I performed in Italy. Was really fucking awful to her. Charlotte was still interested though, so I cheated on Giada with Charlotte, and then ended up in a relationship with her. And then cheated on her with half the corps, and guys in bars, anyone who showed me the slightest bit of attention, to be honest,” said Charles. “Because I was used to being complimented on dance, and on the way I looked, but they want to remove _you_ from those things on stage, and suddenly people were complimenting _me_. Never mind that it was just that I was good at sucking dick or good in bed, I craved it. Let people take advantage of me because I needed telling those things so badly.”

Pierre gave his hand another squeeze, gnawing at his lip as he thumbed over his fingers.

“And then coke started making me feel like shit. I’d have panic attacks all the time, and my chest would hurt, and there was a part of me that knew cocaine can cause heart attacks, and that’d stackon top of the panic attack and I was genuinely convinced I’d die. I wouldn’t turn up to performances because I’d be too paranoid and panicked to leave the house. People started talking about how much of a fuck up I was, it made the news,” murmured Charles, voice thick now. “And I lost my job. Suddenly all those years of work and school and missing out on shit meant nothing, because my career was gone. And I was stuck with my thoughts, because cocaine just made me feel worse then, and I was in the same position Jules had fell into. People always said how similar we were.”

“But you’re here now,” said Pierre quietly, keeping hold of his hand as he got up, moving to sit on the floor at the end of the couch where his head was. He moved to stroke through his hair with his other hand, concentrating on it.

“Yeah. My family made me move back in with them. Lots of therapy. I went to residential treatment for a few days while I withdrew and properly got it all out of my system,” said Charles. “Went back to taking classes after six months off, I think. Managed to get my job back, but it was fucking awful because everyone knew what I’d been like, plus I had people offering me coke still. Met Seb when he was teaching a masterclass and really got on with him. Then he got talking to Nicky and Lance who were talking about wanting this ballet, and apparently they’ve been fans of me since Lausanne, pushed for me to get a role. Between the three of them, they’ve given me another shot at a career, to be honest. That’s why I was being stupid about not wanting to say my back was hurting the day I was injured.”

“You’re so fucking good. You’re going to have a great career,” said Pierre. “When we first danced together, I went home to my flatmates and whined about how good you were.” 

Charles snorted into the cushions, giving his hand a squeeze. “And they told you to stop being dumb, I guess?”

“Yeah. They never said I was wrong though,” said Pierre, a small smile playing on his lips.

“You’re lucky to have them,” said Charles. “They really look after you.”

“I know. They love me and I love them,” said Pierre. “Though, Alex really fucking likes you at the minute. I told him about you suggesting therapy and that you’ve got the details of one that speaks french. He was telling me to marry you.”

“Was he now?”

“Yeah. Also asked if you know a dutch speaking one we can throw Max to.”

“Max seems completely fluent though?”

“He is. He’s been speaking English since he was three or something,” said Pierre, rolling his eyes. “He likes to pretend he’s not when this subject comes up though, since it was my excuse for ages.”

“So it’s a theme with you guys?”

“Just me and Max. That’s why when we get drunk we let the emotional repression go a little bit and end up crying on the couch and talking about boys. I’ll shove him to the french one in the end if I have to, he speaks okay french.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. He grew up in Belgium. Dutch speaking parts, but they all have to learn french too because for some reason they couldn’t pick a language. The same weird kind the canadians speak,” said Pierre, playing with Charles’ hair absent mindedly. “He’ll be annoyed that he understands French and give in to speaking English then.” 

“I love your enthusiasm for this. I’ll give you the number then, yeah? As long as you end up using it as well and not just annoying Max with it.”

“You think Alex would let me get away with that? You think _Dany and Max_ would let me get away with that?” asked Pierre. 

“Maybe not. Dany could beat you up,” said Charles.

“Dany could beat anyone up. You should see him on the punching bag he’s got in his room. We’re all alive solely because he’s chosen _not_ to beat us up,” nodded Pierre. 

Charles snorting, shifting to roll onto his side and face him. His eyes were red, he’d obviously been crying as he’d spoke earlier, but it seemed to make his eyes look even greener, and his lips even pinker. “I know which one to really not piss off then.”

“They like you, thank god. You managed to just slot in on halloween, which is crazy because that’s when everyone was there, not just the three of them, you know? And we were already a bit drunk when you got there.”

“You were. I thought you were meant to be coordinated?” grinned Charles. “Lando said he doesn't know how you don’t end up injured whenever you go out.”

“Lando’s closer to the ground than me, no wonder he’s threatened by it,” said Pierre. “Is what you said before why you don’t drink?”

“Yeah. Staying away from substances in general is the best idea,” said Charles. “For me anyway. I don’t think Lando minded having a sober buddy.”

“He won’t have. He’ll guilt you into coming out with us next time he comes,” said Pierre, grinning. “Someone else who’s sober, who also distracts me from rambling about how much of a shithead Carlos is and that he can do much better? He’s not going to pass that up.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” said Charles. 

“See, I get this a lot. People disagree with how I say things, but I’m never actually told I’m wrong,” said Pierre, shrugging. 

“Because it’d be like kicking a puppy, wouldn’t it?” said Charles, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Would it?” asked Pierre, raising an eyebrow.

“Pretty sure it would,” said Charles. “And I don’t want your friends to beat me up.”

“True,” nodded Pierre. “Speaking of which, give me the number for that therapist. And then text it to Alex so I can’t pussy out of it.”

“You’re taking this seriously then?” asked Charles, taking Pierre’s phone when it was offered and letting go of his hand to type the number in.

“Might as well. There’s no getting out of it now,” said Pierre, shifting to get up and sitting on the couch so he could find Alex’s number once Charles was done.

“Good for you,” nodded Charles.


	22. Chapter 22

Progress without Charles was _slow_.

Pierre had danced with Cat a few times - well, if miming getting close to attempted murder counted as dancing, anyway - and had run his solos countless times, but he was beginning to feel nervous about the partnering. He knew that in the grand scheme of things, a week longer wasn’t really much, but he also knew that in terms of muscle memory it could be huge. 

It didn’t mean he was happy when Esteban turned up though.

“Where’s George?” sighed Esteban as he opened the door on Pierre stretching at the barre.

“Italy. He got dragged out to cover the touring cast,” said Pierre, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Why are you here?”

“I’ve got La Bayadere rehearsal. Why are _you_ here?”

“ _I’ve_ got La Bayadere rehearsal,” said Pierre, looking at him for a few seconds before going to the piano and looking at the title at the top of the sheet music. “Shit.”

“Please tell me they’ve not shoved us together,” said Esteban, following him to look. “Jesus Christ. They’re expecting me to lift _you_?”

“What? You’re too scrawny to do it? Must suck to suck,” hummed Pierre. 

“Me? You’re the one who didn’t grow,” said Esteban, narrowing his eyebrows. 

“I think you should show a principal a bit more respect,” said Pierre.

“Wish I knew how you scammed them into making you one.”

“Bastard.”

“Knob.”

  
“Uh,” said Lance, looking uneasy as he walked into the room with Christian following him.

“Ah yes. You speak french, don’t you Lance? Wouldn’t it be nice if you could illuminate us all as to what these two are going on about,” said Christian, raising an eyebrow at them.

“Thankfully I missed most of it,” sighed Lance, and Pierre and Esteban looked at him with wide eyes.

“Isn’t that interesting. I suppose they'll have to behave for the rest for this rehearsal,” said Christian, giving them both a look. 

* * *

“I don’t get how they can be dicks to each other, then dance like that,” Pierre could hear Lance whisper, as he and Esteban worked through the Kingdom of the Shades pas de deux.

It wasn’t exactly bad. He and Esteban had danced together before - Esteban was in his cast of La Bayadere and had to play a High Brahmin who loved him anyway, which meant they were used to acting now. But dancing with Esteban wasn’t like dancing with Charles, he was too tall, and the lifts didn’t feel as easy, and he could see the same mask on Esteban that he himself had learned in school, where Charles always seemed so earnest when he danced. Esteban just didn’t excite him in the same way, technical perfection or not.

“Certainly a good backup option for casting if Charles or George get injured,” agreed Christian. “I don’t know if Charles and George would work quite so well, since George is a good bit taller. I suppose we’ll have to try it when they’re both back.”

  
Pierre was going to wrap Charles in fucking bubble wrap. There was no way he was being stuck with being as bored as dancing with Esteban made him, not now he had Charles to compare him to.

“Right,” said Christian, gesturing that they could stop. “Stay in here though boys, I think Toto wanted a chat.”

Pierre and Esteban let out a sigh of relief as they separated, going to the opposite ends of the room to go and get a drink of water. They were left alone then though, Christian and Lance having left.

“I can’t believe he speaks French. Having people understand us is weird,” sighed Pierre finally, going to sit down on the floor.

“He’s canadian. It’s always a risk,” said Esteban, raising an eyebrow as he did the same. “Plus you’re dancing with someone who speaks French. It’s not been just us and Romain for a while now. Or ever, since Charlotte came here.”

“It’s always a risk,” mimicked Pierre, rolling his eyes. “I think the others know by now that we always do this though. Lance didn’t.”

“So Charles knows we’re like this now then?”

“Well apparently you had a big long chat to him and were very honest. He said you did,” shrugged Pierre, and he could tell that Esteban didn’t think Charles would have told him. “He even told me something really surprising about you.”

“Did he now? What’s he said?”

“He said you were nice about me. I was going to have to check he actually meant you,” shrugged Pierre, dodging a ballet shoe that Esteban launched towards his head.

“I should have told him you were a twat,” huffed Esteban.

“On a serious note though,” said Pierre, leaning over to get the fallen ballet shoe and throwing it back at him. “Thank you for speaking to him. About all of the shit he said.”

  
“I wasn’t having him going around and saying that shit,” said Esteban. “And I knew you couldn’t do it.”

“Thanks though,” said Pierre. “He said you warned him what I was like. Which you really didn’t have to do. Kind of went above and beyond there and it really helped me out.”

“Well,” shrugged Esteban. “Better I say it than get dragged into partnering you because he’s ended up upsetting you.”

“True,” said Pierre.

“He’s been alright with you then? Hasn’t said anything else?” said Esteban.

“Yeah. He’s been really nice,” said Pierre. “We’ve talked about it a bit. He’s given me a number for a therapist who speaks french. Thinks I need it.”

“You do need it, you dickhead,” sighed Esteban. “You know that. I know that. Anybody who actually knows you knows that.”

“I do,” sighed Pierre, laying down. “I’m gonna phone them, don’t worry. Alex won’t let me get away with not doing.”

“Good for you.”

“You know his brother’s at the school?”

“No?”

“Yeah,” said Pierre quietly. “I met him. Arthur Leclerc? He’s in Vergne’s class. Who’s apparently not soft as shit now.”

“Vergne? You’re telling me Vergne’s actually telling people off?”

“Apparently he’s super strict now, which is funny,” said Pierre. “He was always the one who’d let us off.”

“He was. Charles must be shitting it now he knows what they’re like there,” said Esteban.

“He is. He already knows,” sighed Pierre. “Do you remember Jules?”

“Bianchi?”

“Yeah. He knew him,” said Pierre quietly. 

“And?”

“ _Knew_ ,” said Pierre. “He didn’t retire. He died, because school turned him into a mess.”

“Wait, what?” asked Esteban, his eyes going wide. “Died? When?”

“Not long after he went home. Mental health.”

“Really? Fuck.”

“Yeah. And the school was meant to change things,” said Pierre quietly. “We both know that they didn’t. Maybe they were less direct about things. The only thing I can think of is them stopping being keen on smoking to keep us thin?”

“Well they stopped suggesting it I guess. They would still go buy them for us if we gave them money though,” sighed Esteban. “That’s my ‘this is how fucked things were’ story, to be honest.”

“Have you quit yet, by the way?”

“No. Can’t say that how much of a nightmare you were when you did really inspired me. Your friends deserved a medal for putting up with you,” said Esteban, rolling his eyes.

“They did, I’m not even going to pretend otherwise. Might not be a scrawny shit who complains about lifting me if you stopped though,” said Pierre, looking over as the door opened and Toto came into the room.

“Christian tells me you’ve been arguing again boys?” asked Toto cheerfully. “Don’t worry, Nico and Lewis were much the same.”

Pierre and Esteban looked to each other, and both made a gagging motion. “Please never say that again,” sighed Pierre, looking back to Toto. 

“Yeah. I’d rather die, honestly,” said Esteban, leaning back onto his elbows. 

“Apparently your partnering was good enough to suggest otherwise,” said Toto, going to sit on the floor with them, and Pierre and Esteban shared a look again. “Now boys, the schedule for our World Ballet Day live streaming event is going to come out. And Pierre as our new principal and all the media attention that’s come from that, certain people are very keen to get involved.”

“Which people?” asked Pierre, furrowing his eyebrows.

“ _Twinks anonyme_ ,” whispered Esteban, grinning as Toto continued. 

“Well, Alain Prost,” said Toto, and well _that_ was a surprise. “He’d like to show some of the french training methods, have part of our livestream be a class with you two.”

“He’d like to cause shit with Paris Opera, you mean? Flaunt the fact his loyalties no longer lie with them like he did with Pierre’s promotion?” asked Esteban, raising an eyebrow. 

“Perhaps,” shrugged Toto. “It’d be perfectly fine with us if that’s his reasoning either way. And our patrons would be very keen to get to see him in action, I think. I’m sure it’d bring a good amount of sponsorship and donations our way. And people would be willing to pay for tickets to come in and watch, there’s still a lot of affection for him out there.”

“We just get done slagging school off, and he pops up,” said Pierre, sighing. “It’s like he’s haunting us. I’m fine with doing a class with him though, it doesn’t bother me. Can’t wait to see him trying to speak English for a full class.”

“As much as I don’t like to agree with Pierre, I feel the same. It’s not like either of us have any loyalties to Paris either,” said Esteban.

“Excellent news,” said Toto, getting up. “I’ll get him to send some exercises over and Romain can run you through them in your next coaching session. I’m sure he’ll be delighted,” he said, looking over his shoulder as he left.

“He definitely knows Romain hates him then,” hummed Pierre, watching him go.

“Romain is going to lose his shit,” said Esteban. “At least this should be entertaining. How many times do you think Prost is going to mention that you’re too short?”

“At least ten, and he’ll call me fat for good measure. How many times do you think he’ll point out your arms are too long and that you cheat your turnout?”

“Even more than ten.”

* * *

**pierre: just so you know i called the therapy lady**

**pierre: she’s very nice**

**pierre: and alex didn’t even have to lock me in a room to do it so that’s pretty cool i guess**

**charles: did it go okay?**

**charles: it’s a big step and i’m proud**

**pierre: yeah i’ve got an appointment with her on tuesday**

**pierre: its the next day alex and me both have off**

**pierre: alain prost is coming to our world ballet day lifestream thing just to pre warn you**

**pierre: dunno if you hate him or not so i thought i’d say**

**charles: really?**

**pierre: yeah toto talked to me and esteban about it**

**pierre: also please don't be stupid about resting cause i had to practice with esteban today and i know i keep saying it but it’s not as fun and also he whines way too much about having to do his job**

**charles: i promise i’m not being stupid about it**

**charles: i’m gonna come back and esteban can whine about other things**

**pierre: good**

**pierre: esteban basically thinks this is prost trying to piss off paris opera by associating himself with a ballet company that’s doing more at the minute tbh**

**pierre: i think i have to agree**

**charles: why would he want to do that? he works for them right?**

**pierre: omg no not for years**

**pierre: there was a really big falling out**

**pierre: all internal because they’re very good at keeping scandal inside only**

**charles: really?**

**pierre: he wanted to be head of the school**

**pierre: and tbh he should have been, he was really pissed off at the way some people treated us**

**pierre: zero emotional availability and very critical of us and not just critical on things it was fair to be critical on but he wasn’t happy with the way we got treated in general terms**

**pierre: they basically said fuck you to that because it’d have meant actually dealing with the issues and can’t have that!**

**pierre: but also when he didn’t get it he basically said he’d stay until we graduated and placed the fuck out of there and they still kinda won because still nothing is getting changed**

**pierre: sorry about ranting about my very mixed feelings on him to you**

**charles: no it’s fine**

**charles: what’s he coming for**

**pierre: to teach me and esteban on stream lol**

**charles: are you gonna be okay with that?**

**pierre: i’m gonna have to be**

**pierre: but therapy lady has been called just in case**


	23. Chapter 23

Pierre had known from the first time he danced with Charles, that it was very different from how he felt when he danced with Cat. 

Dancing with Cat was easy, and it flowed, and it looked great, but it was _boring_. He was just going through the steps with her, and she was just going through the steps with him. From the outside it was beautiful, looked like the perfect pairing - that was why a year on from their breakup, they were still being casted together - but despite it being so beautiful, it was secretly uninspiring. He didn't feel like it helped him grow, dancing with Cat, because it was a bit too comfortable, a bit too ordinary.

He should have taken that as a sign that they wouldn’t work out in an off stage relationship, he realised with hindsight.

He knew there’d been whispers about how _interesting_ it was that Cat would get to murder him in La Bayadere through her being cast as Gamzatti, and how _interesting_ it was that he would have to pull a knife on her as part of the story, and how _interesting_ the casting was, and Pierre couldn’t help but think that their consistent use of the word interesting betrayed the fact they didn’t know what they were talking about at all when it came to him and Cat.

“And we’ll stop there,” said Sebastian, looking pleased as he watched on. “Take a few minutes and we’ll bring Charles in.”

Pierre nodded, going to the other side of the room to get some water, looking over when he heard the door open. He could see Cat go straight over to him to introduce herself, and then he was shocked to hear Charles easily slip into italian and start chatting to her.

**royal opera hoes**

**ultimate fairytale prince: 🚨🚨🚨🚨 charles can speak italian 🚨🚨🚨🚨**

**light of your lives: and? good for him**

**mad lad russell: he’s rehearsing with cat and charles together for the first time today**

**ultimate fairytale prince: yeah how am i meant to eavesdrop and know what she’s saying to him when they’re speaking pasta pizza**

**albono: finally feeling our pain when you speak hon hon baguette huh**

**baldo: in fairness it’s not the guy we like and our ex speaking hon hon baguette we should probably be sympathetic**

**ultimate fairytale prince: lando this is why you’re everyone’s favourite…**

“Hey,” Charles smiled at him, making his way over to him. “Told you that you wouldn’t be stuck dancing with Esteban for too long.”

“Thank god for that. How’s your back?” asked Pierre. 

“Good. Much better,” said Charles, and Pierre could see Cat watching them talk. He quickly switched into French, to keep the conversation theirs and theirs alone.

“I’ve got that therapy session today,” he said with a hum, reaching down to adjust one of his elastics on his shoe. “Don’t worry, she doesn’t speak a word of french,” he said, when he could see Charles look surprised and glance over to Cat.

“You’re sure? Not that I don’t think it’s cool to be open about it,” said Charles quickly.

“She’s my ex, Charles. Trust me. She’s never learned it. She’s even been to France and never said anything other than bonjour,” said Pierre. “How come you speak italian anyway?”

“Lots of people speak italian in Monaco,” said Charles. “It’s a major language there.”

“Oh,” said Pierre. “I never knew that.”

“Suppose I’ll have to teach you some things about Monaco, huh?” Charles smiled at him.

“Suppose you’ll even have to take me there one day,” winked Pierre, moving away from the side of the room when Romain and Esteban came in and Sebastian called for them start.

The destruction of the temple had been one of Pierre’s favourite scenes in La Bayadere ever since he’d moved to the UK and been able to see it, and he could have killed Nureyev himself for cutting it from the Paris Opera version. He was pretty sure the music was Minkus at his best, every single note full of emotion and feeling, and even Daniil agreed on that, so it had to be true. He’d loved it as Solor, being torn between marrying the Sultan’s daughter and being distracted by the ghost of his true love, but now he was the ghost who was going to be doing the taunting, and it was so much more exciting.

“I’ve seen the set today, I think the set designers have had a lot of fun,” said Sebastian, leading Pierre to stand behind Esteban. “The temple will actually come crashing down, so when that happens you need to make sure you’re off stage.”

“Lando did say something about that,” said Esteban quietly, and Pierre had to wonder when the _hell_ Esteban had actually spoken to Lando. He couldn’t remember them ever speaking in his life, hell, he didn’t know if they’d ever been in the same room. He could see Carlos look over from his spot at the piano too, obviously wondering the same thing.

“Pierre, the doors you’re going to come through are enormous and really heavy,” explained Sebastian. “Esteban is going to pretend to open them, but in reality we’re going to have some stagehands opening them behind. Make sure to go a few steps in front of them, just incase they swing shut. We don’t need them knocking you down the stairs.” Pierre could see Cat flush at that where Sebastian had positioned her kneeling with Charles, though he pretended not to notice.

As they carried on working through the choreography, Esteban helping him haunt Cat and Charles, as Romain watched on, Pierre couldn’t help but feel something in his chest twist at how easily Charles seemed to be able to partner Cat. There wasn’t a single stumble as he led her around on a promenade, no wobble as he knelt and she eased into an arabesque.

He took more pleasure than he probably should have as he ran between them, and started to lure Charles away into lifting him instead.

* * *

“So are brunettes your type then?” Charles asked, as Pierre led him out into Covent Garden, towards one of the coffee shops he and his flatmates had gone to more times than they could count.

“I guess? All my past partners have been brunettes,” said Pierre. “It’s not something I’ve ever specifically thought about though.”

“You didn’t seem too awkward back there with her,” said Charles. “Wish I could be like that with my exes.”

“There wasn’t really much choice,” laughed Pierre dryly. “I was still partnering her straight after we broke up. It was in the middle of a run of Nutcracker and we were on stage the same night we split. Maybe two hours after?”

“Ouch,” winced Charles. “Did that not get really awkward after?”

“Not straight away. But then she started saying things to other people that weren’t true, and it got really really awkward,” admitted Pierre, leading him into the coffee shop. It looked fairly small as you went in, and crowded with people trying to get the latest instagrammable thing that was up as their special, but Pierre knew about the upstairs seating, and the small balcony where you could go and look out on Covent Garden, and watch the people bustle around the boutiques.

Daniil had been the one to show them it, since it had a piano in the corner of the upstairs which anyone could go and play, and apparently it was a favourite haunt of the orchestra who would take it in turns to surprise the shop’s patrons with full out performances of Mozart and Beethoven and Rachmaninov. Pierre had even been on a few of the orchestra’s trips there, been able to see the stunned faces of people around when one of them would suddenly start painting pictures with the way their fingers flew over the piano keys.

“Pierre,” grinned the man behind the counter. “Do we have to address you as principal now?” she teased.

“Shut up Juri, like you would anyway,” grinned Pierre. “Can I get my usual? What do you want Charles?” he asked, turning to him. 

“Err,” said Charles, looking up at the board. “A green juice?” he settled on after a few seconds.

“So healthy,” said Pierre, grinning. “Extra syrup on mine please Juri. I have to balance him out.”

“Suppose you do,” grinned Juri. “Who’s your friend?”

“Charles. He’s not been with the Royal Ballet very long, he came over from Monaco,” Pierre hummed, looking to Charles before taking the two cups offered to him.

“Well nice to meet you Charles. I think your usual spot upstairs is free Pierre? It was just before I took over from Yuki about ten minutes ago, anyway,” said Juri, and Pierre grinned at him before leading Charles up a well hidden set of stairs.

  
“Who’s that?” asked Charles curiously.

“Juri. Me and my flatmates come here a lot,” said Pierre. “Do you want to go on the balcony? It’s kind of cold and usually I’d stay inside when it’s like this, but you can pick.”

“Inside,” said Charles, following Pierre over to a pair of armchairs in the corner. Pierre let out a happy sigh as he sat down in one, setting the drinks down on the coffee table between them. 

“I can’t believe you got something healthy after 3 hours of dance. I need to get on your level before my metabolism gives up,” said Pierre, taking a sip of his pink raspberry frappe. “Anyway. Cat.”

“Yeah. You said she started saying things that weren’t true?” asked Charles, looking at him like he was surprised he was allowing it to be brought up.

“Yeah. Essentially, me and Cat were together for two years in total,” Pierre explained. “We were both in the corps, she asked me out, I thought she was pretty and I knew she was a nice girl, and I said yes. And the first few dates were nice enough, but nice was all it was.”

“But you kept going?” asked Charles.

“Yeah. It was nice having a girlfriend, you know? I’d been in a really critical and restrictive environment growing up, I really wasn’t emotionally developed at all, and I had this beautiful girl telling me really nice things about myself. I’d had girlfriends and boyfriends at school, but those relationships were more chaotic, you know? You’ve She was comfortable,” said Pierre. “Sorry. I know that sounds really shitty.”

“I’ve definitely said worse,” reassured Charles.

“Anyway. Looking back at it, at the time I was depressed? I mean I didn’t get it at the time, because I wasn’t sad to be honest, and I thought that was what depression was. That you were just sad all the time. But everything just…. I didn’t really feel anything. I was really numb, I didn’t really enjoy anything,” explained Pierre. “Food didn’t really taste of anything so I couldn’t be bothered to eat and I lost weight. I didn’t want to go and do anything fun or hang out with anyone so I just used to come home and sleep. It was like everything had gone grey. And it also meant I didn’t want to put the effort into actually going and having the conversation that it wasn’t working with her, because I also didn’t particularly care what I thought at the time. Just thought I was probably wrong.”

“Yeah,” said Charles quietly, nodding. “It’s not like that for you now, right?”

“No. Dany dragged me to the doctors because he could see things weren’t great, I went on antidepressants for a year. I’m okay off them now, I’ve not been on them for maybe seven, eight months, and I think that’s why I can look back and see that things weren’t actually right now because I’ve got the comparison,” said Pierre. “That whole depression thing carried over into my relationship with Cat. I was never madly in love with here, I’m a bit emotionally repressed in a way anyway because you have to be to get through that fucking school intact, and then on top of it I wasn’t able to feel anything.And I know that must have been really frustrating for her, because she was trying to do normal things with me, and I just couldn’t reciprocate. Then of an evening I was able to go out and fake it to her on stage, because I was always still able to do that, and then as soon as I was off I was just flat with her on stage.”

“So she was seeing what you were actually like, then you were able to look like you were in love with her of an evening,” said Charles, nodding. 

“Yeah, exactly. And I know it would have been frustrating and confusing. And then at the same time, there was a lot of gossip about us in the company. Calling us the perfect couple, and that they thought I’d propose soon, and how beautiful our kids would be. People still do it now, to be honest,” explained Pierre. “And I know that hurt her a lot, because it wasn’t actually how it was. I’d go to hers and we’d watch a movie and sometimes I’d talk to her and sometimes I wouldn’t, and then I wouldn’t want to have sex with her because the antidepressants switched my dick off. And my friends knew the real truth obviously, because I talked to them about it, and they’d shut down people saying that stuff, but I don’t think she told her friends that what they were saying was way off the mark.” 

  
“Yeah. It must have been really difficult for her. People making it out to be so much better than it was,” said Charles.

“And then it got to the point where she must have given up on trying to drag that stuff out of me in the end. She stopped making that effort with me, and I know I probably should have felt annoyed about it, but in a way I was actually relieved because by that point the antidepressants had kicked in, and I’d realised I was two years into a relationship with a girl I didn’t love as anything other than a friend, and it meant I didn’t have to try and force myself into trying to love her because she did like to make everything public,” explained Pierre. “And then she sent me that ‘we need to talk’ text that everyone understands, and she basically told me she didn’t think it was working, that we’d grown apart, and that she’d like to stay friends. Again, more than fine with me, because that was actually what I’d been feeling, but I’d been too much of a pussy to come out and say it like she had.”

“And is that not what she told everyone else?”

“No. And to be fair, what she said might not entirely be a lie. She told people she’d given me a last chance to prove myself to her - and maybe she actually said what she said as an ultimatum, I don’t know, but I didn’t pick up on that - and I’d thrown it back in her face,” said Pierre. “But then she started saying I’d been awful to her, that I’d taken it badly, shouted at her, cheated on her. Which I really hadn’t.” 

“And people love scandal,” sighed Charles.

“Yeah. Suddenly all the girls in the company didn’t like me,” said Pierre. “There were loads of rumours that were even worse than what she’d actually said. And stuff started leaking onto the ballet forums and blogs and things, which was really fucked. It didn’t help that when people asked me if it was my fault we broke up, I just said yes because really, it was, I should have just not been a pussy from the start and said I wasn’t into her after those first few days.” 

“Which they took to mean…”

“Yeah. Fortunately Cat isn’t that clever, and I was able to clear my name because she’d sent me texts after the breakup thanking me for taking it so well, and that she was so happy that we’d still be able to be friends, and my friends all backed me up. And suddenly people remembered that I don’t really shout at anyone but Esteban, and that I’m really not an awful person,” said Pierre. “Which is nice, because those two weeks of everyone thinking I was a dick were _rough_. But people still go on about how me and Cat should get back together now, like they’ve forgotten what she said, but you know.”

“Right,” sighed Charles. “Maybe I don’t want to be like that with my exes then.”

“Yeah, no,” snorted Pierre. “Mine isn’t the best example to follow. Got me dropped down some fucking stairs, didn’t it?”

“Suppose it did,” said Charles, a small grin playing on his face. “Don’t think my back could take that.”

“And we’re not having your back get injured again. Honestly, I was so fucking bored,” sighed Pierre. “Esteban I just argue with. Dancing with Cat really bores me, even trying to stab her isn’t fun. And I just can’t help laughing at Romain pretending to be a sultan that hates me, because it’s fucking funny. I think Sebastian was starting to lose his patience.”

“He’s got the patience of a saint,” said Charles, grinning. “I’ll keep you not bored for a while longer then.”


	24. Chapter 24

**pierre: hey**

**pierre: sorry in advance if i’m a bit weird today with you today or anything**

**charles: ?**

**pierre: had another therapy session last night and honestly i thought i was fine after, went and played monopoly with everyone straight after it and everything**

**pierre: today it’s kinda hit though ngl**

**charles: are you okay to come into work?**

**pierre: yeah lol it’s not that bad**

**pierre: just a bit sad and feeling a bit weird**

**pierre: but it’s tech rehearsal so we’ll be busy all day long anyway :) no time to be sad**

**pierre: just thought i’d warn you incase you notice and think it’s something you did! don’t want that**

**charles: thanks for the warning**

**charles: hope you feel better soon :(**

“How long do you think we’re going to be there tonight?” asked Alex, rifling through the kitchen cupboards. 

“Really fucking late,” said Max, dumping their water bottles into a bag. “And it’s all new sets and costumes and shit. The usual version of it is what, three hours? There’s no way we’re out before nine tonight.”

“Potentially longer,” agreed Pierre, putting a large multipack of crisps into the bag when Max offered it to him. “The company’s never run it together before today. I’ve never done any of the bits the corps does with me. So blocking is gonna take forever.”

“For fucks sake,” sighed Daniil. “We’re ordering food there if we’re not done by 7pm. I know we always say it, but this time we’re following through.”

Tech rehearsal was always the longest day of work for them, where everyone from all corners from the opera house came together and tried to figure out how to make a production work on stage. It was as exhausting as it was long, with lots of feedback, and changes, and hours upon hours of dancing. Pierre always felt lucky that he managed to dodge the ones for productions of operas, when his flatmates would come home dead on their feet and he’d have to have dinner ready to force them to shovel down themselves before they collapsed in bed.

“Who’s car are we taking?” asked Max, looking at them hopefully.

“Dany’s,” said Alex firmly. “We’re not dealing with you driving us back when we’re too tired to keep you in line.”

“Dany goes fast too sometimes,” said Max, and Daniil just shrugged.

“Maybe I’m just better at being fast than you.”

“Stop arguing about driving. We’ll never get him out of the flat if you do that,” sighed Pierre, adding more snacks into the bag. “Do you think this is enough?”

“No. You know Lando and Tonio will have forgotten to bring anything,” said Alex, putting some fruit snacks in. “And then they’ll want to steal ours.”

  
“You’re right,” said Pierre, watching as Alex added a few more things and zipped the bag. “Are we ready to go?”

“I think so. Max, bet you can’t carry this,” Alex said, grinning as he offered him the bag of food and Max snatched it off him. “Too easy,” he laughed, as they all made their way out of the flat and down to Daniil’s car. 

* * *

Once they arrived at the theatre, they went and grabbed their usual spot over towards the side, halfway down the stalls. It was perfect for them - close enough that they could see Daniil in the orchestra pit, on the right side of the stage for Pierre to be able to sneak down between scenes, near the door for the stairs to the lighting box, and close enough to the sides that Alex could turn his phone light on and do emergency stitching if he needed to.

“Home sweet home,” sighed Max, setting the bag down before rifling through it to dig out a notebook. “See you whenever I see you, dickheads,” he said, before heading up the stairs. Alex headed off as well, going towards the costume department.

“So charming,” said Daniil, rolling his eyes. “There’s your man,” he said to Pierre, thumbing over his shoulder at where Charles was walking in, two takeaway coffee cups in his hand. Pierre looked over at him, waving him over to join them. 

“Hey,” said Charles, offering him one of the coffee cups. “I got you that sugary thing you had last time.”

“I can’t believe you remembered what it was,” smiled Pierre as he took it. “Thank you though.”

“I didn’t,” admitted Charles, stood awkwardly. “I asked the guy behind the counter, he knew what your usual was.”

“Sit down with me and Dany. You know you didn’t have to come so early? I’m not going to even be warming up until 9,” said Pierre, as Charles sat down. “I’m only here because otherwise I’d be coming in on my own.”

  
“We’re literally only here for Max,” said Daniil, rolling his eyes. “The rest of us could have had another hour’s sleep at least.”

“We’re such good friends,” grinned Pierre, taking a sip of his drunk.

  
“I was up anyway,” admitted Charles. “And the email said 8, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but that’s when the theatre opens,” said Pierre. “We start later than that,” he said, looking over towards the lighting box when he felt a spotlight being shone over them. “He’s being a shit already.”

“How many times do you think Kimi’s going to threaten to kill him today?” asked Daniil. 

“At least twenty,” hummed Pierre, shifting to get comfortable. “Enough for a murder conviction if anything happens to Max in the next week.”

“Who’s Kimi?” asked Charles.

“You’ve not met him yet?” asked Pierre in surprise. “He’s the stage director. You’ll think he’s scary when you meet him, but he’s not.”

“You only don’t think he’s scary because you know what he’s like from Max,” said Daniil.

  
“Yeah, and because I know the legends about him are definitely true,” said Pierre.

“What legends?” asked Charles.

“About him having sex with Sebastian Vettel,” said Daniil, shrugging. “Nobody thought it was true, but apparently it is.”

“Wait,” said Charles, laughing. “Is he Finnish? Blonde and a bit angry looking? Talks in one word sentences unless he can avoid it?”

“Yeah,” nodded Pierre. “You’ve met him?”

“He’s been in a relationship with Seb for years. Maybe a decade,” laughed Charles. “Oh my god, is it a big secret here?”

“I…” said Pierre, eyes widening. “Really?”

“Yeah. I went to their ‘fuck getting married’ party in Switzerland,” said Charles, pulling his phone out and going through his pictures. “This Kimi?” he asked, showing them a picture of Sebastian and Kimi stood in front of a christmas tree. 

“Fuck,” said Daniil, looking over. “Can’t believe Max has been swearing you're wrong on this.”

  
“Max needs to get better connections,” nodded Pierre, patting Charles’ arm. “Like I did.”

* * *

Sebastian Vettel’s choreography was beautiful, but holy _fuck_ it was tiring.

  
They’d only just finished up the first half of Act I (though it had been run through, after run through, after run through, with each team trying to get things right and him being stuck repeating it while they changed things) and Pierre felt like his legs were burning as he walked back to the spot in the theatre that he and his friends had grabbed. “I’m gonna die,” he sighed, slumping down into a seat and digging his water bottle out of his bag.

“You nearly did. You got way too close to the fire in the fire pit,” said Lando, scribbling down a list of things that need adjusting with the sets. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Alex warned. “Toto wants to try you in your death outfit,” he said, holding up a costume bag. 

“He doesn’t,” groaned Pierre, gulping down some water. 

“He does. Ocon’s already getting changed. And you’ll get to see Charles in his. He’s getting told once he’s they break to move the sets,” said Alex. “Heard he got you a drink on his way in?”

“Yeah. It was nice of him,” nodded Pierre. “Juri told him my favourite.”

“Very nice of him,” agreed Alex, putting the costume bag on his lap. “Go get that on when you’ve had a minute. You better fucking like it, my fingers are bleeding over the damn thing.”

“I bet it’s gonna be worth every finger poke,” said Pierre, unzipping the bag to look. “You’re gonna have to help me figure out how to get all this jewellery on though.”

“About that,” said Lando, opening a pack of crisps. “Dunno if it’ll work or not, but the necklace is gonna make it look like you’re bleeding when you get bitten by the snake. I’ll show you how to work it.”

  
“And you’re going to make sure none of it drips onto the costume,” Alex sighed, shaking his head.

“You’ve really had fun with this production, huh?” Pierre asked, looking to Lando. 

He could tell the answer was a yes, with how lavish the sets had been so far. Even the scene with the firepit, probably the barest set design of them all, had been well above anything Pierre had seen before, with a real fire to dance around and the most beautiful moonlit scene he’d ever seen as the background. 

People were really going all out with this production, like they knew how special it was going to be. The costumes were ridiculous - he’d seen Alex bring a few home, to work on until the early hours of the morning, and right down to the corps the costumes were covered in detail, with shiny gems and glimmering embroidery.

_Fuck_ , Pierre thought. This was going to be big.

It was when he was sat alone in a dressing room, Alex just having left after helping to layer his bare chest in jewellery and body chains, trying to figure out how to get them to sit just right (a few sneaky pieces of clear tape on his skin, apparently) it really hit. He was the principal of the lead cast of a new production that was choreographed on him by _Sebastian fucking Vettel_ , that had the ballet forums creating pages and pages of messages as they waited with bated breath to finally be able to see it.

And it was a _lot_. He wasn’t used to being the lead principal, he was barely even getting used to saying that he was a Principal instead of a First Artist, constantly comparing himself to George and Charles and Esteban who he still quite didn’t feel like he’d reached yet, despite the fact they were now ranked lower. Principals were people like _Lewis_ , or Claire, who always knew exactly what the fuck they were doing, who were cool and calm and collected, and who’s energy the rest of them could feed off, not people like _him_.

He felt like an imposter, like he’d somehow scammed his way through his entire career. Was he even good enough to be in this company, this production at all? It wasn’t just going to be his friends, his family, his fellow company members watching this and trying to see if he had the capabilities to be a principal or not, it was _real_ people, reviewers, who’d be more than willing to sink their teeth in and drag him beneath the stage, destroy his career if he screwed up. 

Sebastian Vettel’s name hung around his neck like an anchor, and one wrong move would have him sinking.

“Hey,” said Charles, opening the door and snapping Pierre out of his thoughts. “Are you alright?” he frowned, and then Pierre knew he probably wasn’t hiding the panic he was in very well.

“I-,” started Pierre, looking to him desperately. “How the fuck am I going to do this, Charles?”

“Do what?” asked Charles, closing the door behind him.

“This production. All of this,” said Pierre, looking at him helplessly. “I’m not a fucking Principal, everyone’s about to see that.”

“What do you mean?” asked Charles, looking completely baffled.

“Principals are people like Lewis, like Nico, like Sebastian. Fuck, like you,” said Pierre, and then Charles’ gloved hands were on his bare biceps, and he was looking up into deep green.

“They are. And they’re like you,” said Charles firmly. “Everyone’s been saying today how they can see why you got promoted. They’re feeling the same way about you that you did about Lewis. Toto’s been going mad because people have been sneaking videos because they’re _that_ excited about your dancing today and he’s scared they’re going to leak.”

“But why?” asked Pierre, shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re good. Really good,” said Charles, looking into his eyes. “You’ve not even noticed that Hamilton and Rosberg are out there watching, have you? Or that the corps are trying to figure out the footwork you’re doing at the side of the stage? You’re doing exactly what you need to do to prove yourself.”

“I don’t feel any different though. To how I did,” said Pierre quietly.

  
“Yeah, because you’re smarter than people give you credit for,” said Charles. “You’ve got a set of friends who treat you normally. They’re happy to sit around you and take the piss out of you and keep you grounded. It means you’re not spotting the people watching you like they used to watch Lewis, like Arthur was with you in Paris. You’re not getting big headed with all of this. It’s definitely there though.”

“I didn’t think this would end up with me being called smart. I feel pretty fucking stupid right now,” admitted Pierre.

“Well you’re not. I wouldn’t put you on University Challenge or anything, but you’re not stupid,” said Charles. “I think whatever weird mood you’re in, and shock at how big they’ve gone with everything is getting to you. You’re good enough for this, you’d fight Esteban if he said you weren’t, wouldn’t you? Which means deep down you believe it.”

“I’d fight Esteban either way,” said Pierre, moving a hand to wipe a stray tear. “He’s fun to fight. But I’d think he was wrong, yeah.”

“You would,” said Charles. “Don’t let your head get to you. Just go out there and do what you’ve been doing.”

Pierre sniffed and nodded, before looking up at him again, green staring into blue. They didn’t say anything for a few moments, simply looking at each other.

“You know,” said Pierre quietly, voice barely a whisper. “My friends don’t think you’re pretending. When you look at me on stage like you love me.” His heart stopped, he could feel the blood drain out of him when Charles just looked at him for a few seconds after the words left his mouth.

“You’re not stupid. You’re just dumb,” said Charles finally, a smile playing around his lips as he leaned in, connecting their lips.


	25. Chapter 25

Pierre had kissed plenty of people before.

  
His first kiss had been a girl called Noémie, when they were both twelve, and they’d snuck behind a tree at school, a week into what their preteen selves had thought was a relationship. It had been sloppy and inexperienced, and Pierre had thought after that maybe kissing wasn’t for him.

He’d been Esteban’s first kiss, when they were 15 and their train back to Normandy had broken down, and they’d been stuck on a replacement bus instead for two hours. Esteban had been upset, thinking he’d never be loved, and even if he was, they wouldn’t like him in the end because he didn’t know how to kiss, and Pierre had been bored, and classed himself as significantly more experienced, and offered to teach him in the toilet. They’d only ever acknowledged it once, when Esteban had got his first boyfriend over a summer break, and ended up thanking him when Anthoine left the room to go to the toilet.

He’d kissed Daniil, when they’d first started living together. Seeing the way Daniil’s brain worked, how his long elegant fingers danced over the piano keys, and a shitload of alcohol had culminated in a make out session and clumsy sex, and they’d both quickly figured out that they were meant to be platonic and nothing more. At least he’d found out that Daniil was fucking _huge_ , he guessed. Max and Alex had never learned about that particular incident, as far as he knew.

He’d kissed Cat hundreds of times, layering kisses over her shoulders and neck. It had been to try and give her what she wanted, to make her feel loved. He’d felt empty, like he’d been hollowed out with an ice cream scoop. He’d faked his way through. Sometimes he’d even managed to convince himself that it was great, that there was nowhere he’d be happier. He’d lied.

He’d kissed Max, even. It had been on a night out, and someone had approached them, and asked “Hey, aren’t you Jos Verstappen’s kid?” and Max had looked lost, and Pierre’s drunk brain had decided the best way to save him from even having to think how to respond was to keep his lips busy, and make the guy who’d dared ask the question feel too uncomfortable to stick around. It really wasn’t bad, either.

Kissing Charles Leclerc was different to kissing any of them. Charles kissed like he danced - passionate, and quick, and with feeling. His hands came up to hold Pierre’s face tenderly, like his jaw was as breakable as glass, but his tongue had other ideas, not holding back from exploring every corner of his mouth, and his teeth nipped at his lips teasingly. Charles kissed the way Pierre had always wanted to be kissed, and Pierre wasn’t holding back as he returned it, hands squeezing at Charles’ hipbones as he was crowded up against the wall.

They were jolted out of their kiss by a knock on the door, and Christian calling, “Pierre?” and he and Charles grinned at each other. “Have you managed to get the costume on?”

  
“Go,” whispered Charles, giving him a small nudge and a smils. “We’ll talk later.”

“Yeah, I’ll be one second,” called Pierre, pressing his lips to Charles’ once more before slipping out of the door and smiling at Christian. “Just needed to figure out the body chains and stuff. There’s kind of a lot of them.”

“Do you think you’ll need help for the quick change, or no?” asked Christian, leading him along and down the stairs to the stage. 

“Uh, no, I think I’m okay. I’ll get Alex to show me before I have to do it with time pressure,” lied Pierre, letting Christian direct him over towards Lando.

He knew he really should try and listen to what Lando was saying right now, about how to work the flower basket and the hidden snake mechanism in it, but his head felt like it was filled with static, like it could only be tuned into the channel that Charles had fucking _kissed_ him. He’d had Charles’ lips on his own only a few minutes ago, felt his hands on him blooming heat under them, their teeth had clashed. 

“You’re really distracted today,” sighed Lando, painfully aware he wasn’t taking anything in. “Just press it up against your neck, the magnets should hopefully do the rest. You’ll know it’s worked if you hear it click.”

  
“Yeah, thanks,” said Pierre, and he wondered if it sounded as distant as his head felt. He was lucky, really, since he knew he’d be able to get Lando to repeat this entire conversation at a later date, whenever he was better placed to actually process what he was being told.

“Fuck, what’s up with you?” asked Esteban as Pierre went to join him in the wings. 

“A lot on my mind, I guess,” said Pierre, looking him up and down and then bursting out laughing at the extravagant High Brahmin costume he was in. “Is that a fucking loin cloth? And how tall does that hat make you?” 

“Shut up. At least my nipples aren’t out,” said Esteban, flicking one of Pierre’s nipples and earning a yelp before his cue to go on played.

Now Charles had mentioned it, Pierre could kind of see what he meant about the way the corps members stood around him acted. They were giving him that little bit more personal space in the wings, a few of them looking him up and down as they stood around him. Nobody was telling him to shift over so they could get a better view of what was happening on stage, instead they were on tiptoes around him, fitting their views around him rather than making him fit what they needed. 

He’d had a decent level of respect from them when he’d been a First Artist, sure, but this was a different way of acting towards him. And honestly, Pierre kind of liked not being jammed up against someone’s sweaty armpit while he waited.

  
Charles came out, and Pierre would have to thank Alex or whichever one of his colleagues designed the costume he was wearing, because thankfully there was absolutely nothing sexy about it, which made it a little easier to not break into a smile when he saw him. Especially since he was supposed to be pretending to be so sad he’d rather die than take the antidote to the poison he’d been inflicted with. Smiling at Charles probably wouldn’t work too well with that storyline.

He could hear some intakes of breath as he ran on stage and took his position, and he let himself believe that maybe some of those were for him, not just for the beautiful costume that Alex had put him in.

Dancing for Charles suddenly felt like the easiest thing in the world. To think of someone else taking him, of taking away all that Charles had given him over the past few weeks, was all Pierre needed to do to be able to fill the music, to communicate what he needed to. He let the jealousy he’d had over him dancing with Cat come out, like a zit that had needed to be popped, letting it pour into his dancing as he looked at her holding his hand while they watched on.

When it came time to finally press the flowers to his neck, he could hear a soft click and felt something wet on his neck and the weight of the fake snake attaching to him, and when he threw it away he could hear gasps as he pulled the snake off him. He could tell Lando would be revelling in the reaction, and to be honest so was he, as he ran around the stage and he saw the corps reaching out to him - Calderon, Schumacher, Chadwick, all looking pleading as they pretended to try and help him. Maybe he was giving off the energy Lewis managed to, where he was able to draw others into acting with him, even though this was a technical rehearsal and not a performance. 

There were a few claps from the stalls when he dramatically fell to the floor, from people who clearly didn’t know that Esteban would be rushing over to him, offering him an antidote. He’d drawn Esteban into his act too, he thought, because he was managing to actually look tender with him as he helped him back to his feet, and he could hear the thud behind him of him collapsing to his knees when he dropped the antidote. Then Esteban caught him easily when he collapsed back, swan diving and reminding himself to _trust, trust, trust_ that he wouldn’t hit the floor, and that was when the applause really started, as Charles rushed to hunch over him.

“Absolutely no complaints with that one,” called Toto, “If we’re able to do that night after night, we’ll be completely fine.”

“Jesus mate,” said Lando as they went off, offering him a baby wipe for his neck. “Brought the house down there, imagine what you’ll do with a real audience.”

“Hopefully at least half as well?” smiled Pierre, doing his best to wipe the fake blood off himself. 

“I’m sure,” said Lando, taking the necklace off him as well. “Tell Alex I’ll give this back once I’ve refilled it, yeah?”

“Okay. Is he around?” asked Pierre.

“Over behind the sets. Like hell he’s letting you unsupervised with one of his precious costumes.”

“Surprised he’s not pulled it off me already. I’ve been off stage a whole three seconds,” joked Pierre, looking around for Alex, and grinning when he saw him heading towards him.

* * *

“Fucking amazing mate,” said Max, scrolling through an online takeaway menu. “Kimi shit himself a bit.”

“You’re going to shit yourself when you find out what we learned about Kimi today,” said Daniil. “Get me that one,” he said, nodding to something on screen.

“Don’t see why you can’t just tell me instead of teasing me like this,” said Max, clicking to add the pizza Daniil had picked to the basket.

“It’s your punishment for not knowing,” said Pierre. “Tell Kimi thanks for me though,” he said, letting his eyes flick towards where Charles was currently crouched at the front of the stage, as Sebastian leaned up on his tiptoes from the orchestra pit to give him some kind of direction. 

Later felt like a lot later than he’d expected. Charles had been whipped away from him the second he’d got changed out of his costume, and he’d been constantly going on stage ever since, trying to get through Act II and sort out the Kingdom Of The Shades. He didn’t seem tired at all though, and Pierre had to stop his mind from drifting to other situations in which that stamina might be useful.

“Hey, Pierre?” asked someone, and Pierre looked over to find Nicholas Latifi. “Can we speak for a minute?”

“Sure,” said Pierre, grateful for the distraction as he climbed out of his seat. He followed Nicholas over to a quiet corner, and could see him looking out into the stalls, probably checking where Lance was if he had to guess.

“Me and Lance have got a party coming up for our engagement,” Nicholas explained, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s going to be really boring, it’s more because our dads need a chance to explain how it’s all going to work to their investors, but I want to make it more fun for Lance.”

“Okay?” said Pierre, nodding.

“Would you be willing to perform at it, if I paid you? It’s just that your Lausanne performance is one of his favourites ever, and he’s been dying to see you do whatever you performed then again.”

“Don Quixote?” checked Pierre. 

“I’ll be honest,” admitted Nicholas. “I don’t really get much of the ballet stuff, I enjoy it but I’m nowhere near as into it as him. I just support him in loving it. But I’ll trust that you know it.”

Pierre just laughed. “Then yeah. I’ll do it. When is it?”

“Thank you so much,” sighed Nicholas in relief. “It’s next wednesday. I need to try and get Charles and George in as well.”

“You going to tell them your secret?” joked Pierre.

“Don’t,” sighed Nicholas. “If it keeps him happy I’ll support anything.”

* * *

“Hey again,” Pierre leaned over Charles’ shoulder and whispered, the first time he was able to catch him in the wings.

“Hey,” said Charles, breaking into a grin when he realised who’d snuck up on him. 

“I forgot how much Solor does on stage. How are you not tired?” sighed Pierre.

“Is that your way of saying you’re getting impatient for our chat?” whispered Charles with a grin.

“Maybe,” said Pierre.

“Come to mine tonight,” Charles whispered. “We’ll talk there. I’ll take you from here drop you home after if you want your own bed, okay? We’ll have an easier time having a private conversation outside of this theatre, I think.”

“This doesn’t make me less impatient,” whispered Pierre, before running on with him to start the Shades pas de deux.

By the time they’d finished technical rehearsal, Pierre was pretty sure that he was going to end up collapsing on Charles’ sofa the second he sat on it. If he even made it that far and didn’t end up falling asleep in the car, anyway.

“I’m going to go to Charles’ tonight. Compare notes,” he explained to Daniil as they waited at the front of the theatre for everyone to join them.

“Compare notes? Is that what you’re calling it now?” asked Daniil, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” said Pierre, slapping his arm lightly. “It’s not like that.”

“Okay. You know everyone is going to want a report on your notes comparing tomorrow, right?” asked Daniil. 

“Shh,” said Pierre, reaching up to put a finger over Daniil’s lips as Max and Alex made their way over.

“We’re going to wait for Charles,” Daniil warned them as Max went to try and dig the car keys out of his pocket. “Pierre’s going to go and ‘compare notes’ with him.”

“Compare notes? Fucking hell,” laughed Max.

“Perhaps the shittest excuse we’ve heard you come up with for a dick appointment,” said Alex, shrugging.

“It’s not a dick appointment,” sighed Pierre, looking over at the door to the backstage.

“If you don’t make it into one, I’ll be really disappointed. We need more gossip other than that you being good at dancing, which isn’t news to any of us,” said Max. “Here you go.”

“My sex life doesn’t exist just to give you gossip,” said Pierre.

  
“Your sex life doesn’t exist at the minute. Time to revive it,” said Daniil, as Charles came over to them.

“All okay?” asked Charles, starting off towards the door with them.

“Yeah. They’re just bullying me like always,” pouted Pierre. “Where did you park?”

“The car park two streets away,” said Charles, digging his keys out of his backpack.

“Cool, we’re parked there too. That means Pierre can take his turn with the mega bag,” said Alex, giving it to Pierre who just groaned. 

“How does this feel even heavier than this morning?” he sighed, carrying it to the car park for them.

“Because it’s probably got more of your ballet shit in,” said Max, taking the bag and putting it in the car boot once they reached the car.

“Holy fucking shit,” said Alex in a low voice, and Pierre looked over to see Charles going over to the same Ferrari that had been in the parking garage below his apartment and unlocking it it.

“Pierre,” said Max, in a voice fainter than Pierre had ever heard him use. “If you don’t get fucked in that Ferrari, you’re dead to me.”


	26. Chapter 26

”Did none of them realise that it was my car? Really?” laughed Charles.

“No,” said Pierre. “I didn’t realise it was your car.” 

“I have different expectations of you,” said Charles. “It’s got Monaco plates though? How many people do they think there are from Monaco around here?” 

“Lots of people go to Monaco if they’re rich, don’t they?” said Pierre.

“If they’re rich enough to be going to Monaco for tax reasons, they usually stay in Monaco. And don’t have to bring a car from Monaco over here,” said Charles.

“True. You’re actually from Monaco though, right?” said Pierre.

“Yeah. My family are all Monegasques, I’ve got a Monegasque passport. Sadly I’m not rich enough to be there for tax reasons,” said Charles.

“But you do have a Ferrari,” said Pierre, getting his phone out and snapping a picture of Charles’ hands on the wheel to send to the group chat.

**royal opera hoes**

**baldo: … he seriously has a ferrari?**

**light of your lives: a fucking portofino**

**albono: max has had to lay down in the back of the car over it, he’s not coping**

**mad lad russell: probably because he openly said he wanted to fuck charles’ car lmao**

**[ultimate fairytale prince sent an image]**

**albono: WTFFFFFF move over max i’m getting in the back with you**

**light of your lives: wtf you can’t send actual porn to this chat pierre**

**mad lad russell: that is not safe for work…**

**ultimate fairytale prince: :) love u guys and tbh this is more of a reaction than i got when i accidentally sent you all my nudes so its good to see your priorities**

“Please tell me they’re not still on about fucking my car?” laughed Charles.

“No. They’re calling pictures of it porn though,” grinned Pierre. “You know you’re never going to get left alone by them until you’ve taken them out on a drive, right?”

“Are you happy you’ve got first dibs over it?” smiled Charles.

“Definitely,” laughed Pierre. “How did you even get this?”

“A gift. My older brother got it for me when I came out of rehab,” said Charles. “He’d been trying to convince me for a bit, before everything really hit the fan.”

“My brothers just gave me quick reaction times when it looks like someone is going to try and steal food from me,” said Pierre, earning a laugh from Charles.

“I’m not going to make you sad by telling you that I might have got that too,” said Charles, shaking his head.

“Good. I’m still in enough emotional turmoil over crying at you, getting kissed, and then ending up in a Ferrari,” said Pierre, and Charles let out a snort.

“If I’d known the Ferrari was on the same level as the kiss, I’d have told you when you were first telling me about Max wanting to fuck it,” laughed Charles. “Got you interested then and there.”

“I was already interested then,” laughed Pierre. “My friends were already sick of me already.”

“You were?” asked Charles in surprise.

“Yeah. They’ve had to hear a lot of shit about you,” said Pierre. 

“I genuinely didn't pick up on that. I’ve been moaning to Seb about you not liking me back for weeks now,” said Charles, sighing.

“You haven’t,” laughed Pierre. “Please tell me you’ve not been sat thinking that.”

“I have,” said Charles. “You forgot I genuinely thought you were with Max?”

“So many people have thought I’m going out with Max over the years,” groaned Pierre. “I don’t get it.”

“Because he looks like he’ll fight anyone who makes you upset?”

“So would Alex and Dany. They’re just less obvious about it,” grinned Pierre. “Better watch out. Dany does boxing for fun.”

  
“Trust me, I’m not making that mistake again,” laughed Charles. “I’m going to try not to anyway.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you can cook,” said Pierre, letting out a happy moan as he took a bite of the meal Charles had cooked him.

“Nutrition is important,” Charles grinned at him. “Not everyone can get away with eating pizza multiple times a week.”

“I’m going to cry when I can’t get away with it any more. I might actually have to learn to make something other than pasta,” said Pierre.

“I’ll teach you how to cook. Can’t have you wasting away,” said Charles, eating a forkful of his own. “I’m still kind of in shock that you liked me back.”

“Why?” asked Pierre. “You’re fucking perfect.”

“Hardly,” laughed Charles.

“You’re fit,” said Pierre. “Ridiculously fit. And you speak french, and you understand ballet, and apparently you can cook too. What else is there?” 

“Mental stability?” laughed Charles.

“Yeah well. You gave me the number of that therapist and Alex suggested I should marry you for that and that alone,” grinned Pierre. “He was very approving.”

“Did he? No wonder he told me to go have a chat with you this morning,” laughed Charles.

“Alex actually gets emotions, that’s why. He was the one who suggested I give you a text and warn you this morning, to be honest,” said Pierre. 

  
“Clever guy,” said Charles.

  
“You’re not too bad yourself. I think you got it spot on why I had that panic this morning,” said Pierre. “And when I went back out it was like you’d opened my eyes. I could see what you were talking about.”

“I’m glad you could see it. You deserve to,” said Charles. “What you did with your death scene today was fucking incredible.”

  
“Thanks,” said Pierre, looking down at his plate. “It means a lot coming from you.”

“Why from me in particular?” asked Charles. 

“You’re so fucking good,” said Pierre. “And it’s not like you’re one of the guys who don’t really know what they’re talking about. Or George who’s known me for years by now so has to be nice.”

“I don’t think any of them _have_ to be nice. They’re happy to rip on you for things, aren’t they? It comes from a place of love, but they’ll still do it,” said Charles, setting his fork down once he was done. “They’re being nice because they think you’re good too.”

“I know,” said Pierre, putting his fork down as well. “It’s just different.”

“I don’t know if it should be,” said Charles, getting up to put their plates in the dishwasher.

Seeing Charles in his home environment was different. He was softer, more quiet, with more smiles on his face and he laughed more easily. He seemed content to hole up and let things be peaceful around him, and didn’t seem bored by the quiet at all. Pierre couldn't help but think it’d drive him mad, too used to the noise that came with living with three other people to appreciate silence now.

“Did you get asked to dance at Lance’s thing too?” asked Pierre curiously.

“Yeah. I’d do anything for them, to be honest, they helped save my career,” said Charles.

“I said I’d do it,” said Pierre. “I didn’t know Lance was the main one who liked ballet.”

“Yeah,” laughed Charles. “Nicky’s kind of just along for the ride. Nice to see someone that supportive though, you know?”

“Yeah. That’s some level of commitment,” smiled Pierre, getting up once Charles had finished.

“Thank you for cooking me dinner,” he hummed, leaning in and kissing him gently, grinning at the surprise on Charles’ face when he pulled away. “What?”

“Just a surprise you’ll do that now,” laughed Charles, shaking his head.

“Get used to it, you’re fun,” smiled Pierre. “You look tired though. And I feel tired.”

“Do you want me to take you home?” asked Charles.

“No. I’ll sleep over here. You’ve slept in my bed right? Seems only right to test out yours.”

**royal opera hoes**

**light of your lives: so basically, if pierre marries charles, and also puts me in his will, i’ve just got to kill them both but charles first and i’d get the ferrari**

**сука блять: your knowledge of inheritance law astounds me**

**albono: he just astounds us all in general**

**light of your lives: :)**

**baldo: they’re taking the piss**

**light of your lives: :(**

**ultimate fairytale prince: i’m gonna stay over at charles’ tonight, pls pack me some snacks in the morning and also stop plotting my murder thank you x**

**[baldo changed user nickname: ultimate fairytale prince >>> ferrari fucker]**

**ferrari fucker: that’s max**

**сука блять: max wishes**

**light of your lives: max wishes :(**

**albono: have a great night don’t do anything i wouldn’t do!**

**mad lad russell: so basically don’t do cock and ball torture and you’re fine**

**baldo: he’s dead already isn’t he**

**ferrari fucker: yeah lmao rip george**

**baldo: Fs in the chat :(**

* * *

Pierre woke up to a warm light spilling over him, and the sound of birds chirping outside the window, and the beautiful image that was the restful face Charles Leclerc on the pillow next to him. 

He couldn’t remember him coming to bed. Pierre had gone for a shower, pulled on a pair of Charles’ boxers (which were fancy as fuck, and he kind of wondered whether it was actually worth splashing the money on that kind of thing) and climbed into the bed, and realised how fucking warm and comfortable it was - equal to his own, which he hadn’t really had before - and passed out. 

He tried not to think about how Charles must therefore must have come back from his own shower to him already fast asleep. It didn’t really make for the most romantic of evenings.

Charles looked serene, dark lashes fanning over his cheekbones, and his lips slightly parted as he slept. His bare chest rose and fall as he breathed, a few strands of his hair dusting over his face and moving with his breaths. There wasn’t a single line of tension on his face - at least, not until his alarm started blaring from his phone, and his eyes crinkled up and he groaned and rolled over to shut it off. 

“Morning,” smiled Pierre, reaching over and stroking the stray hair out of his face, and Charles looked surprised before green eyes settled on him in realisation. 

“Hey,” said Charles, voice thick with sleep as he rolled over onto his side. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Amazingly. I think I passed out before you got back from your shower,” said Pierre, toying gently with his hair. “Did you?”

“Yeah, you did,” said Charles, a smile creeping into the corners of his lips. “Came back and you were out cold. I slept well.”

“Good,” smiled Pierre. “Not the me passing out thing. That’s kind of embarrassing to be honest, I don’t think I knew how tired I was. But that you slept well.”

“Glad you didn’t want to go home. You’d have fallen asleep in the car and I’d have had them fighting to get you out of there,” smiled Charles, leaning in to kiss his lips. “Come on. Breakfast before rehearsal.”

“You’re gonna cook for me?” asked Pierre, stroking over his cheek before sitting up. “Can’t say no to that.”

* * *

**royal opera hoes**

**ferrari fucker: i’m gonna come home and get some clothes**

**ferrari fucker: so nobody freak out at hearing someone walking around the flat, okay? it’s my walk of shame/stride of pride (more pride)**

**light of your lives: wait does this mean the ferrari is coming to the flat**

**ferrari fucker: you mean charles? yeah :)**

**albono: we’re up and can’t wait to see the car**

**сука блять: will alex or max be the first to fuck the car? who knows**

**“** Park here, they don’t open this shop until 9,” said Pierre. “So nobody should get pissed off.”

“You sure?” checked Charles, pulling in.

“Yeah. Besides, they all want to come and perve over the car anyway, it’ll be save,” said Pierre, grinning. “Max won’t let anything happen to it.”

“I forgot that part,” grinned Charles, opening the door to get out. “I feel much safer now.”

“I would,” said Pierre, leading him up the stairs towards his flat and fumbling in his pocket for his key. There was no need however, since Daniil swung open the door for them.

“Charles,” grinned Max. “Think we need to get acquainted mate,” he said, pushing his way out of the door and leading Charles back outside by the arm.

  
“Wow,” said Pierre, watching him go before stepping inside the flat. “Someone’s eager.”

“We’re all fucking eager,” said Alex from the kitchen counter. “You eaten yet?”

“Yeah, Charles made me food,” said Pierre. “Why are you so eager?”

“They’ve made a bet on whether you’ve been fucked in the Ferrari yet,” said Daniil, rolling his eyes. “I’ll not tell you which one picked which.”

“How much is the bet for?” asked Pierre, heading towards his room.

“Fifty,” said Daniil.

“Fuck. Someone was really confident then,” said Pierre, shutting his door and starting to get changed. “What do you think, Dany?”

“I think you didn’t,” said Daniil, sounding a little bored as he spoke through the door. “I think you probably went to his, talked, and then passed out. Like you always do after tech rehearsals.” 

**“** Huh,” said Pierre, pulling a fresh pair of leggings on. “No wonder we crowned you the smart one.”

“Fuck,” groaned Alex. “Really Pierre? You couldn’t give me this one?”

“You bet on me fucking in the car?” asked Pierre in surprise. “I thought it’d be Max.”

“Does it change your answer?” asked Alex hopefully.

“No,” said Pierre, coming back out of his room.

  
“In fairness, Max only went for no because he didn’t think Charles would desecrate the car,” said Daniil, shrugging. 

“Maybe they’re both wrong then,” said Pierre, patting Daniil’s arm. “You guys coming for round 2 of tech rehearsals?” 

“You can’t just leave it there,” groaned Alex. “What actually happened last night with you then?”

“Literally what Dany said. Few kisses, then I passed out in his bed,” shrugged Pierre. “He made this stir fry thing though, so fucking good. He can cook.”

“Good. You’re useless at cooking,” said Daniil, heading to the front door with him.

“You really are,” agreed Alex, grabbing his coat. “So no funny business?”

“No. He went for a shower and came back to me fast asleep. Poor guy,” grinned Pierre, waiting for Alex to lock the door behind them before starting down the stairs. 

“Jesus,” sighed Alex, catching sight of Max and Charles talking next to Charles’ car. “He’s the one we’re all going to work early for, and here he is dicking about.”

“Pierre,” called Max. “I already called shotgun in the Ferrari, you’re gonna have to go with Alex and Dany, sorry,” he said, as he climbed in, and Pierre had to laugh at the apologetic look Charles shot him. 

“It’s fine,” said Pierre, waving as he climbed in the back with Alex and Daniil. “We’ll see you there.”

“He’s never going to shut up about this, you know,” sighed Alex, as they set off. 

“No. He’ll be really fucking happy though,” said Pierre. “And that means he might forget your bet.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” said Alex, looking back at him. “When did you take the brain cell?”

“When I decided to tell Charles I liked him. I needed to borrow it for a bit,” said Pierre, shrugging.

“Was this before or after you decided you were going to his?” asked Daniil.

“Before. I had a bit of a breakdown after Alex put me in my costume,” admitted Pierre. “Kind of embarrassing to be honest. And then I told him. He’s been sat thinking I don’t like him back.”

“Why were you having a breakdown anyway?” asked Alex in surprise. “You did amazing.”

Pierre just shrugged. “Just kind of hit me that it was a big deal. I thought you knew? Charles said you told him to chat to me.”

“I just wanted to shake things up,” admitted Alex. “If Max asks, that was definitely the reason.”

* * *

Pierre moaned into Charles’ mouth as he was lifted so he was sat on the dressing table, Charles moving to stand between his legs and crowd up against him. They’d just finished the temple destruction scene, and Pierre had led Charles over the rubble, looking back over his shoulder at him once he’d reached the top, and then straight after he’d been rushed into the nearest dressing room and Charles’ lips had been on his.

“The way you fucking dance,” whispered Charles, squeezing at his waist before letting his lips drift over Pierre’s jaw and down the side of his neck.

Pierre squeezed him with his thighs, fingers tangling in dark hair. “Yeah?” he teased. “What about it?”

“So fucking beautiful,” said Charles, breath ghosting over Pierre’s skin, and then they were startled out of what they were doing by the door opening and a surprised looking Esteban on the other side looking at them before quickly slamming it shut.

“Shit,” groaned Pierre.


	27. Chapter 27

Attention on La Bayadere had grown since a few leaked videos from their technical rehearsal had surfaced on youtube and instagram, and balletomanes had gushed over them. Suddenly there had been a rush for tickets, and messages sent to his instagram, and Toto had gone on the hunt for whoever had taken the damn videos before they’d had a chance to get all the kinks ironed out. 

And World Ballet Day had generated way more interest than it had in previous years. 

“How many people are on there waiting?” asked Pierre, going over to Lando to peek at the computer screen as Christian went around to arrange people on the barres as he wanted.

“Fifty thousand,” said Lando, adjusting the camera excitedly. “There’s thirty thousand more watching the Paris company class. So some of them will end up coming on too.”

“Jesus,” sighed Pierre, looking over when Christian called him over. 

World Ballet Day was one of the more fun days in the company calendar, hell, in the ballet calendar altogether. The top ballet companies around the world live streamed classes and rehearsals all day, showcasing what they could do and trying to prove that ballet was interesting, and innovative, and not something that was exclusive to people who came from a certain race or class.

And for the dancers, it was a chance to prove themselves. For some of them, a good performance could be the key to a new contract elsewhere. For others it was a way to gain fans, to try and push their way into bigger and bigger roles in the company they called home. The allure of World Ballet Day had been enough to drag Fernando Alondo from overseas, and Nico Hulkenberg out of the shadows where he’d been rehabing after an ankle injury, and put them on the male principal barre instead.

“I remember when you were shitting yourself in the corps,” said Nico, and Pierre had felt extremely short in comparison to him until Fernando had joined them as well. “Good job.”

  
“Thanks,” said Pierre. “How’s your ankle?”

“Better. Not 100%, but they think I might be able to start performing in the next few months. I’m going to have to learn this new Bayadere fast with the hype it’s getting,” said Nico.

  
“I’m glad I’ve skipped that. All I’ve heard is that it’s tiring as hell,” said Fernando. “Vettel was always a bastard for that.”

  
“We’re live in three minutes,” called Christian, looking a little stressed as he went over to look at the screen Lando was working at. Lewis and Nico Roseberg had gone over to join them, microphones in front of them since they’d been drafted in to provide commentary for the livestream. He hadn’t previously realised it would be them, not until Nico had wheeled Lewis in, and Pierre could finally see how thick the cast on his ankle was. The idea of the pair of them discussing his dancing made his stomach knot, and he looked over to where Charles was stood on a barre with George and Esteban - the barre he’d been on last year - and could see him give him a sneaky thumbs up.

When Daniil started to play at the piano, it was easy for Pierre to lose himself in it. He’d been nervous about being on the principal barre at first, between legends like Alonso and Hulkenberg, but he soon realised that his fears were unfounded. Alonso and Hulkenberg were different to him - one significantly older and more jaded, and the other recovering from severe injury, and there wasn’t a competition on that barre. Proving himself wasn’t the goal, he’d already done that to be able to stand at that barre with them. 

He’d have to tell his therapist about that thought, make sure it was actually growth and not just him turning into a dick.

“Beautiful, just a blur of turns,” praised Susie as he finished some chain turns, and he gave her a grin before going to the other corner. “And up,” she said, starting to direct the next set of dancers.

“They love you,” Lando mouthed at him, pointing at the screen and then making a heart motion with his hands for good measure, and Pierre couldn’t help but smile at that - he clearly wasn’t that shit then, and he held that thought inside him as he took off into the jump combination that Susie had just run them through.

* * *

“It’s just us, right?” said Esteban, as he and Pierre were led to the main company studio. “Why are we going in the biggest studio for this?”

“You’re going to have a bit of an audience,” said Christian, opening the door, and _shit, he wasn’t kidding_ , thought Pierre, as he saw the top two male classes from the Royal Ballet School sat in a perfect row along the floor, with people sat on chairs behind. Pierre could see Lewis and Rosberg, and George, and Charles had a seat as well, along with Nicholas and Lance, and Stroll Senior, and some other who Pierre assumed must have been donors from how rich they looked.

“He still gets this kind of turnout?” whispered Esteban, getting a sharp look from Christian.

Alain Prost had been a phenomenon in his day, gracing stages on at least four continents, an impressive feat for someone who’s career had mainly been in the eighties. He was the mould for a french male dancer now, the one they all got compared to, such was the storm he’d created. He’d danced until 40, the age of mandatory retirement for dancers of the Paris Opera Ballet, and then turned his hand to teaching which he’d slipped into with ease.

As a child, Pierre hadn’t really understood why people would marvel when he told family friends at christmas parties that Prost was his teacher. Prost had been old, and had a slight hunch in how he stood, and wasn’t the warmest of people with his corrections. It had only been when his parents had shown him videos, and had told him how special Prost was that he really understood why people took such an interest.

Pierre and Esteban went to the barre, giving each other a look as they heard the door open. They’d both experienced the less beautiful side of Prost. The mood swings. His ability to give the most cutting criticism. His rigid and academic approach to training, with standards which contradicted each other, and strict view of what was _right_ for a dancer made it impossible for anyone to 100% live up to what he wanted.

But they also knew he was a genius, in how he saw every tiny little thing and knew how to correct it. He hadn’t got the nickname The Professor without good reason. When he wasn’t being cold and cutting, he was an excellent teacher. He knew exactly which bits of a person needed to be supported, though he had no qualms about cutting down anything outside of those.

Pierre felt like he was ten years old again as Prost came into the room, because he couldn’t help but think how _old_ he looked, how stepping away from the dance word had aged him so. It was like he hadn’t missed a day as he slipped back into teaching them though, the only difference from when he’d been doing it daily being how he flipped into english and back to french for the pleasure of their audience.

“And if you look, the line,” Prost told them, pointing to the way Esteban’s leg was shaped in a dévéloppe, then over to Pierre to do the same. “Very pure, that’s what we aim for. We pick them for that when they’re very young.” 

Pierre could feel eyes on him as he worked through the old exercises from his time at school, the ones that they’d worked through with Romain in the past few days as Romain ranted about how Prost had kept him from promotions. When it came to dancers in Paris Opera Ballet, Prost’s opinion had been golden and few would go against it, and a person who didn’t fit his mould wasn’t worth further time and attention or promotion.

Not being one that Prost had favoured had acted against Romain, and Romain really resented it. It made Pierre glad he’d opted never to get involved with that system in the end.

“And up,” said Prost, and Pierre suddenly had to be very careful, because Prost was down at his feet, gesturing at the shape, and if he fell and kicked him in the head on a livestream he was sure his principal status wouldn’t save him from the outrage of the ballet community. 

They continued on, he and Esteban demonstrating the exercises that had shaped them, Prost talking through how he’d chosen how to train them. Pierre and Esteban both joined the audience in applauding him at the end, more out of politeness than anything, and then they were led away from the cameras into a small room with Prost.

“Pierre,” said Prost, pulling him into a hug. “How glad I am that you weren’t wasted on Paris. The English clearly have much better eyes these days.”

“Thanks,” said Pierre, and he could sense that this was going to turn into a chat on Prost’s feud with them, and that made him uneasy.

“I always knew you could do it. Much smarter to have left Paris,” said Prost, and Pierre couldn’t help but think about how close he’d come to being booted out of school due to his back injury, how willing Prost would have been to cut him, and how he’d been told it was a stupid idea to leave a guaranteed career in Paris just because he thought his progression (or lack of) through the years would leave him unfulfilled and wanted.

“It’s worked out well, yeah,” nodded Pierre. “Don’t regret my decision.”

“And so you shouldn’t,” said Prost, before moving onto speaking to Esteban instead, who Pierre knew had always fit his mould better. He was tall, and impossibly skinny, with long limbs, essentially everything Prost had prized - and Pierre also knew that Esteban had actually been Prost’s favourite, not him. He also knew Prost would never admit that, not now that he was a principal. 

* * *

“So how was he, in the end?” Charles asked as he sat in the side room with Pierre and George, ignoring the music from the party that was going on in the ballroom next door.

“Pretended Esteban wasn’t his favourite when we were at school,” shrugged Pierre. 

“Bet he did mate,” said George. “Fucking genius though, holy shit.”

“He is. Just not when it comes to picking who’ll hit principal first, clearly,” said Charles, grinning. “He made a mistake there.”

“I doubt anyone would have bet on me, in fairness,” said Pierre. “So how does this work then? Did Nicholas tell either of you?”

“Yeah. We’re gonna get called out there, do a variation on this central platform thing, and then we’re done for the night. Said we could go and enjoy the buffet, get some champagne, do whatever we want,” said Charles.

  
“I might text one of the others and make sure they’re up to give us a lift if there’s free champagne on offer. They’re rich as fuck, it’ll be nice champagne,” said Pierre, getting his phone out.

“Make them give me one too. You can come over too, right Charles?” said George, and Pierre and Charles shared a glance, deciding it better not to bring up Charles’ alcohol abstinence.

“He can stay with me,” nodded Pierre, reaching over to pat Charles’ arm. “You know I need supervision if I’ve got the option of free alcohol.”

“Pierre Gasly?” called a man in a suit as he opened the door, and Pierre stood up and followed him through to the ballroom. 

He’d known that Lance and Nicholas were rich - you couldn’t fund a ballet of the scale that la Bayadere had turned into if you weren’t - but he was shocked at the extent it had to be to if the waythe ballroom was decorated was anything to go by. There was a fucking champagne _fountain_ , for fucks sake, and it was actually nice champagne if the bottles surrounding it were anything to go by. 

“This is a gift for my Lance,” said Nicholas over a microphone as Pierre took his place on the small platform, trying to work out how to fit in the jumps without disappearing over the edge and into the crowd of people that had gathered around it. “He’s gone to Prix De Lausanne every year for the past decade, and we’ve got three winners of it performing here tonight for him.”

* * *

“Rich people buy the best food,” sighed George happily, as he stood with Pierre and Charles near the buffet. “Fucking lobster, they’re such a rich people cliche but I love it.”

“You were talking about free champagne when we came over, you’re way too easily distracted,” said Pierre, looking for a glass to take over to the fountain.

“Lance said to take whatever the fuck we want, didn't he?” said George, shrugging. “At least he liked his present. Money _and_ free rich people food, we're living the life mate."

“Excuse me,” said a man as he came over to the three of them, and Pierre knew he looked familiar, but couldn’t place him. He didn’t look particularly distinctive, just tall and middle aged, with an accident that he knew came from somewhere on the continent, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d seen him before. “I think you know my son.”

“Depends on who your son is?” said George, and Pierre could see that he was having the same thought, trying to place why this man looked vaguely familiar.

“Max,” said the man, and Pierre could feel his stomach sink. “Max Verstappen.”


	28. Chapter 28

Pierre and George shared a worried glance with each other, trying to figure out what to do.

  
Pierre didn’t think they could lie their way out of this one. A quick glance at any of his social media would show him and Max together, saying no now would be easily proven a lie.

“Yeah, we do,” said George, and Pierre was glad he’d taken over. He could see Charles looking at them, trying to figure out the dynamic here, and Pierre gave him a worried look and mouthed, “ _pas bon,”_ at him so he would realise it wasn’t the time to ask.

“How nice,” said Jos, corners of his mouth curling up in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you can tell him that his spot in the family business is still free.”

“Is it now?” asked George, and then some older man in a suit came over and Jos was quickly whisked off track, and Pierre let out a sigh of relief. “What the fuck is he doing here?” George asked, looking over.

“Dunno. Maybe his company does stuff with Lance or Nicholas’ dads?” sighed Pierre, pulling his phone out.

**pierre: you home?**

**alex: yeah why**

**pierre: is max home?**

**alex: yeah?**

**pierre: go be with him pls his dad is at this fucking party and has just come up to me and george and said he knows we know him**

**alex: SHIT**

“You gonna tell Max?” asked George, looking at the phone screen.

  
“Gonna have to, aren’t I? He’s going to wonder why Alex is keeping an eye on him otherwise,” said Pierre, nodding towards the exit.

“So I’m guessing we don’t like Max’s dad?” asked Charles, following the pair of them.

“Max’s dad’s a cunt,” said George with a nod. “Massive cunt.”

“The biggest,” agreed Pierre, pulling out his phone and calling Max once they were safely outside.

“You’re not coming home already right, you fucking lightweight?” teased Max.

“We might be. Don’t come pick us up though Maxy, make Dany do it. Your dad’s here,” said Pierre, glancing around.

“What?” asked Max. “You’re sure it’s him?”

“Definitely. He came over and told us we knew his son, and that it’s you,” said Pierre.

“Motherfucker,” sighed Max.

“Yeah,” said Pierre, chewing on his lip. “Send Dany instead. Don’t come and risk getting dragged into shit.”

“I’ll send Dany,” said Max with a sigh. 

“Good,” said Pierre. “Love you loads.”

“I know,” said Max, before hanging up.

“No point hanging around now and risking him coming over again. I don’t know how many more business people would want to come over and distract him,” said George. “I’ll text Dany now.”

“That bad?” asked Charles quietly.

“Yeah,” said Pierre, nodding. “Max doesn’t talk about it. We all kind of just know though.”

“Right,” said Charles. “Okay. That’s pretty bad then.”

“Yeah. We all know to avoid that one,” agreed George. “Dany said he’ll be ten minutes.”

“Sorry you had to miss out on your rich people food,” Pierre told George.

“Charles can give me a ride in his rich people car and make it up to me for you,” said George, and Charles just sighed.

“News about the car has really got around, hasn’t it?”

* * *

“What did he say to you?” asked Max. He’d taken the opportunity of Charles going for a shower to sneak into Pierre’s room, flop onto the bed next to him, and wrench the memory foam pillow from under Pierre’s head to hold against his chest.

It was a really good job that Pierre loved him like a brother, or he’d be ripping it back out of his clutches.

“Do you really want to know?” sighed Pierre, shifting to turn onto his side and look at him.

“I don’t know. I might change my mind after I’ve heard it, but for now I want to know,” said Max.

Pierre sighed. “He came over and said he knew we knew you. Then he said your spot in the ‘family business’ is still free. Then someone else wanted to talk to him and he went.” 

“The prick,” sighed Max. “Seems Victoria hasn’t decided to put up with his shit then.”

Pierre just shrugged, reaching over to play with Max’s hair instead of risking making things worse by asking who Victoria was. 

“What even was this event you were dancing at, anyway?” asked Max after a moment of silence. 

“Something for Lance and Nicholas’ engagement. There were a lot of business people,” said Pierre. “I don’t know. The dancing was a present for Lance, it wasn’t a general theme or anything.”

Max nodded, pulling his phone out and searching something. “What’s Nicholas’ last name?”

“Latifi,” said Pierre, after thinking for a second. “And Lance is Stroll.”

“Right,” said Max, continuing to search on his phone.

“Maxy,” sighed Pierre, rolling over to give him a hug. “Ignore him. You’re gonna stay here with us and do stupid shit with us instead. I don’t know what went on with him, but fuck him anyway.”

“I know I am,” said Max, patting his arm absent mindedly. “Don’t worry, I’ve already made my mind the fuck up on that.”

“Good. Who else would try to blind me on stage if you went off to Holland?” said Pierre.

“I’d teach someone to do it. Make sure they knew how important it was to a good performance for you,” nodded Max. “Can’t get stage fright if you can’t see the audience.”

“I don’t get stage fright anyway, dickhead,” said Pierre, giving him a squeeze.

“And you wonder why I thought you were together,” said Charles as he opened the door, sighing at the sight of them.

“We can be together if it gets me that Ferrari,” said Max, gesturing between himself and Charles.

“No fucking way,” said Charles, going over to Pierre’s drawers to get some clothes out.

“So rude,” sighed Max, ruffling Pierre’s hair before getting up off the bed and leaving the room.

“Is he alright?” asked Charles, once the footsteps in the hallway had faded away.

“I think so,” said Pierre. “He’s probably going to drive himself mad figuring out why his dad was even there though.”

“What’s Max’s surname again?” checked Charles, getting changed into a pair of Pierre’s boxer shorts.

  
“Verstappen. Don’t know how you can forget one as unique as that,” said Pierre, watching him appreciatively. 

“Is it unique, or is it just one from a different country to you?” asked Charles, raising an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure I’ve heard it before.”

“Maybe,” said Pierre. “I don’t know. Everyone dutch has a surname that starts with V, you’re right.”

“I’m sure that’d get you in trouble if you said it somewhere public,” said Charles, crawling into bed next to him. 

“Probably,” said Pierre, letting his fingers run along the curve of Charles’ ribs. “Max would tell them it’s fine though. He’d give me a pass.”

“How do you know that?” smiled Charles.

“I’d revoke his pass for taking the piss out of France if he didn’t,” said Pierre, smiling and closing the gap between their lips. 

Charles’ lips felt like home now, like a well worn pair of ballet shoes, comfortable and like they’d always been ready and waiting for him. He let his hand drift to the ridge of his hipbone, thumb sliding over the muscle that neighboured it, as Charles moved closer and turned the space between their bodies into nothingness, one lean leg hooking over another. Pierre could feel Charles’ eyelashes and hair brushing against his skin as he kissed down the side of his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, not catching a glimpse of those green eyes because they were _busy_ , busy treating him like art to be appreciated, like something in a gallery.

* * *

“Right, fuckers,” said Alex, looking up from his phone as they sat around the living room eating breakfast. “We’re getting out of this house today and going doing something so nobody can mope.”

“And what exactly are we going and doing?” asked Daniil, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re going to go to the zoo. And we’re going to try and find the funniest looking animal in there, and it’s a competition,” replied Alex, glancing at Max to check if he would take the bait.

“You’re fucking on,” said Max, grinning at him. “Someone text Lando, he’ll love this shit. I’ll text Dan.”

“I’ll text him,” said George. “Why the zoo, anyway?”

“I need to take inspiration pictures for this carnival of the animals thing they’re talking about,” said Alex, shrugging. “It’s not that bad an idea, right?”

  
“Sounds fun to me,” said Pierre, nodding. “You’ll come, right Charles?”

“Sure,” said Charles, nodding.

“Will you drive?” asked Max.

“Too late. I’ve already bagged a ride from him,” smirked George. 

“Am I ever going to get to ride in it again?” sighed Pierre, resting his head on Charles’ shoulder. 

“Are you all ever going to get over the car?” asked Daniil, sighing.

“No,” said Alex. “Trust me. We’re not.”

* * *

Pierre had thought that London Zoo might be a bit quiet on a chilly afternoon in early December, but clearly that was wrong, if how difficult it was to get a picture of him with Charles and George crouched in front of some swans.

“Our bros,” grinned George at Alex’s camera, as Lando read the information placard on the fence around the small lake.

“Apparently mute swans are super protective of their nests,” said Lando as he read. “They’ll fight you if they fuck with their nest.”

“So they should,” said Pierre, getting up once they’d got the thumbs up that Alex had got a good picture for his instagram.

“This says the black swans won’t fight you though. I’m pretty sure you guys lied in your ballet,” readDaniel.

“He’s just proved he’s never watched Swan Lake, basically,” said Max. “The black swan is going fucking up someone else’s nest,” he said, leading Dan along.

  
“We haven’t done a production of it in 3 years, in fairness,” said George. “Surely that’s got to be coming up next year?”

“Yeah, that’s way too long,” said Pierre, sliding his fingers between Charles’ as they walked along.

“Don’t. I fucking hate Swan Lake. I’m allergic to feathers,” sighed Alex. 

“I love Swan Lake. There’s shit all for me to build, I get to relax,” said Lando, following Pierre and Charles as they split off into groups to try and find the weirdest looking animal they could.

“Hey, Pierre?” asked Lando, while they hung back on a bench. Charles had already into the small crowd gathered around an enclosure to try and get a photograph of a star nosed mole, which Pierre was convinced had to have come from the depths of hell to look the way it did. There was no way they were going to lose this contest with that in their arsenal. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” said Pierre, looking at him interestedly. 

“So,” said Lando, looking where Charles was before continuing. “You’ve known Esteban a while, right?”

“Since I was eight, yeah,” said Pierre. “Why?”

“Did he ever say anything about what he’s you know… into?” asked Lando, looking away awkwardly.

“Err,” said Pierre, looking at him in surprise. “He’s gay. One hundred percent gay.”

“Good,” sighed Lando in relief, and oh god, Pierre could see where this was going. 

“You don’t… you don’t like Esteban, right?” asked Pierre, looking at him in surprise.

“Kind of,” admitted Lando. “We’ve been… I don’t know how to phrase it. He’s been helping me figure out how tall I can make some of the sets and still have you guys be able to climb up onto it and stuff. And I know he can be a dick sometimes, but he’s still kind of funny with it, you know?”

Pierre blinked a few times. He knew he should have thought a bit more about when Esteban had mentioned Lando.

“And we kissed, kind of?” said Lando, and _oh god, no_ , thought Pierre. “I don’t know where he learned to kiss like that, but he’s really good, and then he just gave me a smirk and walked off. And I don’t know what that means.”

Pierre decided it better not to say who’d taught Esteban how to kiss, because the thought of him using that knowledge in the way he had was just… wrong. “Right. Okay.”

“Anyway,” said Lando. “I just wanted to know whether it was worth trying to go any further than that, you know? We know what Carlos is like, he wouldn’t admit he liked men so that would never work. I just wanted to know he wasn’t the same.”

“Listen,” sighed Pierre. “Me and Esteban aren’t exactly friends. For a lot of reasons. I can tell you for a fact though that he’s not like Carlos. He’s gay and hasn’t ever tried to be something else. And he’s honest. Even if he’s a dick in how honest he’ll be. If he kissed you, that means he’s interested.”

“Right,” said Lando. “Because he’s _really_ fucking good at kissing and I don’t know if it’s some special french technique, wait,  _is_ there a special french technique like with ballet -“

“Oh my god. Please stop,” groaned Pierre. “Whoever taught him would probably cry if they had to hear this.”

“Well they shouldn’t. They taught him well,” said Lando, getting up when Charles came back over to them. 

“You ready?” asked Charles, looking over to Pierre as they stood at the door of the Royal Opera House, on the morning of their final dress rehearsal. 

There were going to be critics there for this one, ready to review the performance as though it wasn’t a rehearsal at all. Though all the tickets had been sold for the initial run, there were still tour tickets to think about, and good reviews would help push the sales of those.

“I think I am, yeah,” said Pierre, looking up at the large glass facade of the building that had become his home over the past few years. “Are you?”

“With you at my side, how can I not be?” smiled Charles, leading him inside.

★★★★★ _Sebastian Vettel’s La Bayadere - Unmissable, spell binding, genius_

_I think it’s fair to say that when the Royal Ballet announced a reboot of La Bayadere with direction from ballet legend Sebastian Vettel, there was a great deal of buzz. The original plot is fairly thin - a warrior asked to choose between the temple dancer his heart wants, and the princess society wants him to be with, with the former being dead by the end of the first act. The russian classic is beautiful but hasn’t ever really resonated with many people when it comes to the plot, which is why in comparison to Petipa’s other works it remains rather underperformed._

_Sebastian Vettel has hit upon genius by making the temple dancer (or the Bayadere of which the temple speaks) male, and the plot makes vastly more sense as a result. It’s clear to see why nobody from the upper echelons of this fictional society would defend his choice, why the princess’ father would be out for blood the second that he heard that perhaps the prince was interested in the temple dancer, and why warrior would be willing to hide his love in the first place. It’s a simple change, and very little of the rest of the story has any adaptation at all, but it’s added an entirely new layer to tired old La Bayadere._

_I was privileged enough to view the final dress rehearsal, with newly minted principal Pierre Gasly as the Temple Dancer, new addition to the company Charles Leclerc as the Warrior, and First Artist Caterina Masetti-Zannini as the Princess. Vettel’s choreography is entirely new, though clearly inspired by Petipa’s in places, and completely suited to the major change in gender. Gasly and Leclerc’s pas de deuxs are gorgeous, and you’d be forgiven for forgetting that two males don’t usually dance together, such is the ease with which they perform._

_Gasly is one of the youngest principals the Royal Ballet had had since Hamilton’s promotion over a decade ago, and this marks his first new role since promotion. He gave a masterclass this rehearsal, making it easy to see why someone would want to choose him over the more obvious choice of a princess. He is perfectly in tune with the role, with the ability to perfectly straddle the line between beautiful and scary as he haunts the princess in the final scene of the ballet. Special mention ought to go to his death scene - Gasly has always been flexible with beautiful lines, and Vettel’s choreography is perfectly suited to him here. It’s little wonder a few leaked videos of him rehearsing that particular part have caused chaos in the online ballet world - and I can assure those that have seen them that watching him perform it live is even better._

_Leclerc and Masetti-Zannini are also excellent. Leclerc shows exactly strong he is as he effortlessly throws Gasly around in lifts, like he doesn’t weigh a thing. His acting is also impeccable, managing to look perfectly pained as he struggles to decide between his two love interests through the course of the ballet. Masetti-Zannini has a resurgence in this role, and perfectly plays a scorned princess, who gleefully watches on as the Temple Dancer dies and then is horrified as her wedding is ruined by his ghost. This seems to be exactly what she needed after a rather lacklustre episode as Juliet recently._

_Special mention should also go to George Russell, who gave an extremely impressive performance as the Golden Idol, with jumps that leave you with your heart in your throat and wondering if gravity still exists or not. Esteban Ocon as the High Brahim is also perfect, as he tries to hide his love for the Temple Dancer and then ultimately aids his ghost in its revenge, eager to see the Princess get her comeuppance. These two are also the alternative casting for the Temple Dancer and Warrior, and I suspect they’ll be equally as impressive. Other highlights include Romain Grosjean as an evil Sultan, and a chance to see this man on stage is well worth grabbing._

_Overall, this production is pure luxury. The sets are on a completely different level to anything I’ve ever seen - even Paris Opera’s production, which is famously lavish - with real fire, a temple that actually falls down and which the dancers have to scale the rubble of, and special effects. I have no doubt that this particular piece is going to be a jewel in the crown that is the Royal Ballet’s repertoire, and we’ll be seeing it for years to come._

_Sebastian Vettel’s La Bayadere starts at the Royal Opera House on February 2nd. Tickets are currently sold out, with tour tickets going on sale on February 28th at https://www.roh.org.uk/visit/tickets_


	29. Chapter 29

Pierre stood next to Esteban in the wings, waiting to go on for their curtain call. 

Romeo and Juliet finishing meant a few things - a week off to recover, no more of the floaty shirt that was now a dodgy off white from the amount of stage makeup that had been rubbed on it, and two weeks until the opening of La Bayadere.

The dress rehearsal had got positive reviews, which felt like a weight off, since they didn’t have to try and prove the new storyline now, that had already been laid out for them, but there was still the matter of trying to have a good opening night. Fortunately he’d have Charles by his side, though in the past few days Charles hadn’t really been calm about it either.

The fears about his career already being over seemed to have crept back - and as much as Pierre had tried to reassure him that people in England didn’t particularly care what people in Monaco thought, nor could most probably tell you were Monaco was, he also knew that he had the kind of doubt that wouldn’t fade until it had been proven dead wrong, no matter how many times he held Charles and told him it’d be okay.

Their cue came on, and Pierre and Esteban ran on to take their final bow, and it felt like months of the same production was melting away in front of Pierre’s eyes, It almost didn’t feel real, like his legs weren’t burning from the last three hours of dancing, and like he hadn’t sat in his dressing room mentally preparing himself just a few hours ago, because the knowledge of the mountain on the horizon that they had yet to overcome was all consuming.

When the curtain closed, Pierre headed back behind the sets, and he was immediately joined by Antonio who was busy unpinning the fake ringlets from Charlotte’s hair. “Have you seen that, over there?” groaned Antonio, nodding to the corner where Lando and Esteban probably thought they were well hidden.

“Another french person off your list?” joked Pierre, looking away. He _really_ didn’t need to see that.

“Shh, I don’t have a type,” said Antonio. “Wait until Max sees that.”

“You do have a type, it’s okay,” shrugged Pierre. “I hope for their sake Max doesn’t see that.”

“Hope Max doesn’t see what?” asked Max, and Pierre turned in time to see him realise. “Holy _shit_ ,” he groaned, covering his eyes. “Please don’t tell me that’s who I fucking think it is.”

“It is,” said Pierre dully, patting his back. “And that’s what we were hoping you didn’t see.”

“They’re hardly fucking hiding it,” sighed Max. “Where’s your dressing room again? I’m gonna need a lie down.”

“Good luck, we need to pack all my shit up out of it,” said Pierre, leading him along anyway.

“Why aren’t you more surprised by all of this?”asked Max.

“I got a warning,” said Pierre, sighing as he went up the stairs with him.

“What?” groaned Max. “Please tell me this hasn’t been going on for ages?”

“Since the zoo at least,” said Pierre, opening his dressing room.

It wasn’t exactly the most heavily decorated room, he’d never been into all that anyway, plus he only really got it for a week at a time so there wasn’t time to move too much in, but he still had a few photos around his mirror and some flowers that Charles had sent, and some cards from a few of the company laying around. It was superstition by now, having his stuff around the mirror was good luck, and he knew he wasn’t alone when it came to that thought. He started to get changed, watching as Max looked at them.

“You kept this one?” Max grinned, catching sight of one of the pictures that was slightly faded and creased at the corners now, since it was stuck on the mirror with blu-tac every time Pierre got assigned one.

“Of course I did,” said Pierre, shrugging.

It was one that they’d taken shortly after Alex had moved in with them. It had been a rough time really - it wasn’t long after he’d started taking antidepressants, and Max was going through some shit as well that pharmacological therapy just wasn’t seeming to manage, and Daniil had been being pressured to return to Russia by his family and just _not_ be gay, and Alex’s mum’s legal troubles had started to go back onto the front pages as she was released from prison - and they’d decided fuck it, and repainted their entire flat without telling the landlord, and thrown a huge party in it to celebrate (that had got them a few noise complaints, but whatever, they’d never gone to that level again). 

The picture was of the four of them in the midst of it all, probably the first time in ages they’d all managed real smiles at the same time, and Pierre had printed it out the next day and it had travelled the world with him now, had been stuck on mirrors in some of the most beautiful theatres around the globe. 

“You’re such a dork,” said Max, but he put his arm around him anyway and gave him a squeeze. “Are the flowers from Charles?” 

“Yeah,” nodded Pierre, moving to start taking down the photos from the mirror and putting them in an envelope, ready to stick them wherever he was given as his next dressing room.

“He’s literally at the flat. Why didn’t he just give you them there?”

“Because it’s romantic getting them here. Plus you all would have ripped the shit out of him for being a sap,” said Pierre, shrugging.

“We would have,” admitted Max. “Is he okay, by the way?”

“Huh?” asked Pierre, looking to him as he peeled the blu tac off the back of a picture.

“He’s been around at our flat a lot. And that isn’t normal, considering I’ve seen his flat and it’s fancy a shit. I’m surprised you’re not over there all the time,” explained Max.

“He’s getting a bit nervous about the Bayadere thing,” said Pierre, putting another photo into the envelope. “I think our flat helps. It’s so loud and someone - mainly you - is always causing chaos, and it means he can’t get stuck in his thoughts for too long, you know?” 

“Huh,” said Max, taking the envelope off him once he was done and sticking it in his backpack. “Guess I’m good for you guys after all.”

“You know you are, you dick,” said Pierre. “But yeah. You guys don’t mind, right?”

“No,” said Max, picking up his flowers for him. “He’s good for you. And he’s really not difficult to have around. He cooks, for one. How come you don’t cook?”

“Boarding school,” said Pierre. “I never had to. He lived at home.”

“You’d think nutrition was important in your line of work,” said Max, rolling his eyes.

“You can’t cook either,” pointed out Pierre. “And shh. It is. But I can do a salad.”

“You can do a salad,” repeated Max, as Pierre slung his bag over his shoulder. 

“You grew up somewhere with a kitchen,” said Pierre, shrugging as they left the dressing room. “And you still can’t cook.”

“You really think anybody would let me loose in a kitchen? Imagine me with even less of a shit to give about safety,” pointed out Max. “That was me when I was younger.”

“That’s very true. Probably for the good of the country that you didn’t cook,” agreed Pierre. 

“And it’s a good thing for us all that I just let Charles cook on my nights,” said Max, looking out of the back door. “Ocon’s busy soaking up all the glory at the stage door, we can sneak you out.”

“Good,” grinned Pierre, looking both ways before running towards the street Max’s car was parked on. He knew they’d garnered a few strange looks, but the thought that they were sneaking - as conspicuous as they actually were - made it way more fun.

“You’re going to have to go out to the new stage when you do your new ballet,” said Max, unlocking the car. “I bet it’s gonna take fucking ages waiting for you when we’re going home.”

“I’m not Lewis, you’ll be fine,” said Pierre, getting into the passenger seat.

They fell into an easy silence once Max had started driving, until Max looked at him as they reached a red light. “Ocon’s not going to be a dick to Lando, right?”

“I don’t think so,” said Pierre. “He’s a dick when he’s being competitive. That’s what all the shit with me stems from. Being competitive won’t come into it with Lando, you know?”

“You sure?” checked Max.

“Yeah,” said Pierre. “As much as I can be, anyway. I can’t see him pulling too much shit.”

“Can’t be worse than fucking Carlos, can he?” said Max, sighing. 

“No. Plus he’s actually fucking gay,” said Pierre. “And out.”

“Can’t blame it on _his_ _culture_ either, since you’re from the same fucking one,” said Max.

Pierre snorted. “And he’s a ballet dancer. No shame in being out in this job.”

“Yeah,” laughed Max. “Even though he’s a dickhead, I hope it works out I guess. Lando wants someone, you can see how he gets lonely when you’ve got Charles around and I’ve got Dan.” 

  
“Yeah. He seemed pretty excited when he spoke to me about it,” said Pierre.

“What did he say?” 

“He was basically checking Esteban wasn’t another Carlos who was going to no homo,” said Pierre. “And then went on about how he’s a good kisser and that’s when I decided to tune out for my own safety.”

“I’m glad you stayed safe,” said Max, nodding. 

As they climbed the stairs to the apartment, Pierre couldn’t help but smile as he heard Charles and Alex’s laughter from through the door. It meant the world to him that Charles had fit so easily, enough so that coming home and finding him on the couch playing on the playstation with one of his flatmates wasn’t a huge surprise. Pierre hadn’t really ever thought of his flat as being an escape from anything, not with the noise and fairy lights everywhere and the roar of the cars on the road just outside - but it turned out that lack of peace was kind of what Charles was needing now.

“It’s finally fucking over boys!” shouted Max as he opened the door, to cheers from Charles, Alex and Daniil.

“No more Romeo,” sighed Pierre happily, falling into the spot next to Charles on the couch and winding his arms around his waist. “Not for a year at least.”

“If I had to hear the balcony scene one more team, I would have killed someone,” admitted Daniil, as Charles handed him his controller once he’d lose to Alex. 

“You make that seem like a genuine threat, you know,” teased Alex. “You two gonna join? It’s winner stays on.”

“Nah,” decided Pierre, giving Charles a squeeze. “I’m probably going to sneak Charles off to my room in the next twenty minutes, sorry,” he said, grinning when Charles slipped his arm around his shoulders. 

“He’s actually a challenge on this game you know,” said Alex. “Way more fun to play against than you.”

“Really?” asked Max, raising an eyebrow. “Gonna have to play him before you sneak him off Pierre. It's been a while since I had a challenge.”

* * *

“Listen,” said Charles, checking Pierre’s bedroom was shut behind him before sitting down on the bed. “I know why I didn’t think Max’s last name was that weird.” 

“Huh?” asked Pierre, pausing from where he was already starting to pull his shirt off.

“I was speaking to Lorenzo,” explained Charles. “Max’s dad is a business associate of his. And you’re right, he’s a huge fucking dick.”

“Told you,” said Pierre, going to sit down with him. “I don’t know how much I want to hear,” he admitted, reaching to brush some stray hair out of Charles’ face with his fingers. “It feels weird if Max isn’t the one to tell me this, you know? I don’t want to know more than he knows I do, it’s bad enough when I’m able to pick up hints he doesn’t know he’s giving out.”

“That’s fair,” said Charles, nodding. “Basically, Lorenzo told me some of the history. I completely get why Max got the fuck away if any of it is true, to be honest.”

“There’s had to be a good reason. People don’t decide to leave their home countries without a good reason,” said Pierre. “I had reasons. You had reasons. Dany has reasons. Max also has reasons, he’s just not told us. Same way I haven’t told them all my reasons, and you haven’t either.”

“I guess,” nodded Charles. “Do you think I should speak to him about it?”

“It’s hard to tell,” admitted Pierre. “Max is pretty blunt about most things. He’d be pissed if you knew and didn’t tell him, plus he’s been a bit different since Lance and Nicky’s party. But at the same time I think it’s also difficult because he’s kept this quiet for a reason, and I don’t know if it’s because it hurts too much to talk about, or he wants to forget, or because he doesn’t want people to know because he thinks he’s to blame. Anthoine was all of those things for me, and I genuinely couldn’t do it. You know I couldn’t, and it wasn’t through lack of trying.”

  
“You’re doing so well to be able to say his name. You’re getting there,” said Charles, stroking over his cheek. “I think I’m going to have to say it to him. It’s getting the right moment though.”

“Yeah, definitely,” agreed Pierre. “You need to have him on his own but with some support for him nearby. I know that’s difficult to do.”

“It is. I’m going to have to do it though,” said Charles with a sigh. “I kind of opened Pandora’s box by listening to Lorenzo talk about work.”

“It can’t be helped,” said Pierre, shifting to lay down on the bed and pulling Charles with him. “If that’s what he was talking about, that’s what he was talking about.”

“Yeah,” sighed Charles. “I’ve actually got to do something about it though now. You’re right on that.”

“You will,” said Pierre, wrapping his arms around him. “Just have to wait for the right time.”

* * *

Normally Pierre relished his weeks off. He took the time to let his muscles relax and heal, let his mind clear out the old choreography, watch some videos of what he’d be performing this time around and let them inspire him, and didn’t feel guilty about a single minute of doing so.

This time was different though, because _he_ was the one this ballet was choreographed on, and it was _his_ name on the posters that he’d seen on the front walls of the opera house, and it _him_ that could fuck up everyone’s hard work with a single slip up, leave the entire staff in shambles.

  
Was this how Lewis used to feel, as the face of British ballet, the poster child for the Royal Ballet? Was this pressure being temporarily gone from his life why he’d looked so much fresher and younger during World Ballet Day? 

How had he learned to deal with it?

What was it that Prost had told him when he was a kid - miss three days and you’ll feel it, miss five days and a teacher can see it, and miss seven days off the audience will destroy you for it?

Maybe it was something he’d made up to scare them into not slacking off in the summer break, but it was playing on Pierre’s mind right now. 

“You’re not suddenly going to forget everything if you don’t go, you know,” said Daniil, watching him head to the door.

“I know,” admitted Pierre. “I just… I feel like an hour of class isn’t that big a sacrifice, and it’ll help me feel better.”

“Is it actually going to make you feel better or are you going to overthink any correction you get for the next few days?” asked Daniil.

“Both?” said Pierre, shrugging. “I don’t know what to do,” he sighed.

“If you’re going to dance, do it on your own. Do it here. None of us know shit, so we’re not going to comment even if you do something wrong,” said Daniil. “There’s nothing wrong with that. But they give you that week off for a reason, because they know you’re going to be better for it.”

“I guess,” said Pierre, setting his bag down and sinking into one of the chairs at the kitchen table with him. “I just feel like I should be doing more. That I’m going to fuck it up.”

“You’ve never done it before,” said Daniil firmly. “Treat it like any other performance. Don’t get into your own head.”

“Is that what you do? With piano?” asked Pierre.

“Of course I fucking do,” said Daniil, flicking the corner of his toast crust at Pierre’s face. “Maybe it’s not as bad because they can’t actually see me. But the worst thing you can do for yourself is to overthink it. Everyone who got a shit review in Romeo and Juliet got it because they were overthinking and not dancing.”

“I know,” sighed Pierre. “I should probably not go. I’ve got therapy at eleven anyway.”

“A much better option,” said Daniil. “That’s going to help you with this way more. We can see the difference.”

“You think so?” asked Pierre.

“Yeah. You’re getting more open,” said Daniil. “You’re leaving mine and Max’s emotionally repressed club.”

“I don’t think I’ve got that far just yet,” said Pierre, reaching over and patting Daniil’s hand. 

“I said leaving, not left. You’re on your way though, and you’re going to be better for it.”

“Thanks Dany,” said Pierre, sighing.

“It’s okay. This is why you all say I’ve got the braincells, right?”

“Right,” grinned Pierre.

* * *

Pierre had seen Max at some of his lowest points.

He’d never, ever seen Max cry though, and that was why when he came back from food shopping, his heart jumped into his throat at the sight of Max in Charles’ arms sobbing.

“Maxy?” he asked, dropping the bags he’d carried up and immediately rushing over, sinking to his other side. Charles looked at him sadly, and Pierre knew, just _knew_ that they’d had the conversation that had been brewing. 

“He’d think I was such a fucking dick for this,” said Max, wiping at his face roughly.

“He can think what he wants. You’re not a dick,” said Charles.

“Won’t stop him thinking it,” said Max, and the slam of the front door had drawn Alex out of his room, and he seemed to launch himself at Max when he saw him crying.

“You’re you, Maxy. When have you ever given a shit what someone else thinks?” asked Pierre. “Never, ever, ever.”

“Yeah,” said Alex, crouching in front of him and taking his hands away to stop him rubbing his face red raw. “You give them a finger and tell them to fuck off, usually.”

“School of fucking Jos Verstappen,” said Max, letting Alex take his hands, and then letting Alex and Charles swap places. 

“I’ll tell Lorenzo to be done with him,” said Charles, looking at him honestly. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, but he’ll listen to me and get it done.”

“Good,” said Max, letting out a long breath. “Fuck him.”

“Fuck him,” agreed Pierre, giving Max a squeeze. “I don’t know why, but fuck him.”

Max managed a snorted laugh through his tears at that, and it made Pierre feel the proudest he had all week.

“Listen,” said Alex, smoothing through Max’s hair. “Me, you, Dany, Pierre. Lads night in. We order pizza, watch shit TV, and if you want to tell us, you tell us. If you don’t, you don’t. Either option is okay.”

“We don’t mind. We can wait until whenever you’re ready to hear it. Doesn’t matter if it’s in a decade,” agreed Pierre.

  
“I’d like you to have some emotional release by the time a decade is up though, honestly,” said Alex, shrugging. “This is a good start.”

“I’ll go,” said Charles, nodding. “If you want to talk though, I’m here. I’ll even let you drive while we do.”

“Didn’t even use his Ferrari to get me to talk, Maxy,” joked Pierre. “Should I be worried?” 

* * *

It was when they were settled on the couch, Max and his flatmates around him watching Rust Valley Restorers, the kind of mindless car shit that could spark no controversy whatsoever, that Max finally started to talk.

Told them about how his dad was a businessman back in the Netherlands, how he’d built a company and made his family rich, and how he’d done it by being supremely fucked, willing to drag anyone else down to build his empire. How he’d taken the opportunity of having his first born in his son to try and fashion an heir in his own image, how he’d tried to warp Max into the special brand of fucked up that he was too, telling him it was the only path that would let him succeed.

Told them how he’d convinced Max to give up all else - karting, which he’d loved, and Belgium, where he’d loved, and convinced him that leaving his mother and sister and coming to him instead in the aftermath of the divorce was ultimately the path to go down, and how he’d regretted it as soon as he’d realised what it had meant for him. He’d tried to build him by tearing him down with emotional abuse, tried to remove his own identity and mould the remains into the perfect form, but it hadn’t worked - Max had still remained too whole.

Pierre couldn’t help but think about the parallel to his own life - about being convinced that the Opera was the best thing for him, that they’d tried to rebuild him, that they weren’t actually all that interested in _him,_ they were interested in the product he could become - but unlike Max, he’d always been free to leave. Max hadn’t.

That was all Max could muster before he went quiet again, and the other three held him tight, and told him how glad they were that he’d stayed _him_ , and that they had him, and that he didn’t need any of the shit that had come before he’d left for England. 

They’d talk about the rest later. About how to try and make Max feel whole again, to rebuild the pieces that his dad had tried to take out of him, that going back didn’t need to be an option at all, that he could do whatever he wanted and stay with them and just _be_ if that was what he wanted, and that they’d support him either way.

That night, they fell asleep on the couch together, huddled together close like they had done when they’d first moved into their flat and Ikea had delivered their beds somewhere else by mistake, and nobody had been willing to sacrifice and take the floor, but this time it was a _choice_ , one that they hadn’t thought deeply about but a choice nonetheless.

Pierre couldn’t help but feel that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he fucked up in the end. He had his friends, or maybe chosen family was the better word for the three men he was wrapped up with now, and he knew they’d never leave him no matter how bad he fucked up. He had Charles, who’d managed to tag in almost seamlessly, who’d encouraged him to try and heal from the shit he’d put up with, the same way Pierre knew he was going to end up trying to convince Max to heal once they were ready to have that conversation.

He had this.


	30. Chapter 30

Shit, maybe he didn’t have this, thought Pierre, as he frantically dug through his drawers to find his swipe pass for the Royal Opera House.

“How the fuck have you lost it?” groaned Alex, as he lifted the bed up for Max to look underneath.

“I haven’t used it in a few days,” sighed Pierre. 

“You haven’t used it in longer than that. You kept getting us to let you in because you left your pass at Charles’,” said Daniil, looking bored as he stood in the doorway.

“Fuck,” groaned Pierre, pulling his phone out to text Charles.

“You didn’t tell us this earlier because?” asked Alex, making sure not to drop the bed on Max’s head.

“Funny,” shrugged Daniil. 

“Funny?” groaned Max, getting up off the floor. “It was funny before I got on the floor.”

“He probably thought it was funnier after you got on the floor,” said Alex, shrugging.

“He’s got it,” sighed Pierre in relief. “He said he’ll bring it with him for me.”

  
“Crisis over,” said Alex, rubbing his hands over his face. “Are we going then? We’re already twenty minutes late.”

“I can make that up easily with my driving,” said Max, shrugging.

“You can make up twenty minutes on a twenty minute journey?” asked Daniil, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t, you know he’ll say yes,” said Pierre, slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

“Yes,” said Max with a grin, twirling the car keys around his finger. “Besides, they’re stuck waiting for us anyway. Can’t exactly start the ballet without Pierre, can they?”

“Don’t even start saying they’ll start the ballet, dickhead. My nerves are already fried,” said Alex. “You know Schumacher ripped his shirt at the side last rehearsal?”

“Yes. You haven’t stopped talking about it,” said Daniil, as they piled into Max’s car. “And before you continue, we also know that you pricked your finger three times trying to stitch it closed.”

“At least it’s not ‘what if I fall off the stage’ for the thousandth time,” said Max.

“It’s happened before,” groaned Pierre.

“It has,” confirmed Daniil. “If you’re that close to the front of the stage now though, there’s something wrong.”

“It could always go wrong,” said Pierre.

“No negativity in the fucking car,” said Max, starting the car up. “I can’t make up twenty minutes if you’re worrying about shit in the back. It makes it go slow.”

“I thought you had a technical job where at least a tiny bit of physics was involved?” asked Alex.

“I do. So trust me on it,” said Max, shrugging.

Pierre’s heart jumped into his throat when the glass facade of the Royal Opera House came into view. They wouldn’t be starting the performance for a few hours yet, there was still daylight and the people outside were just milling around the streets, instead of waiting to go in, but this was where he was going to have to lay his heart out on the stage tonight, where he was going to have to prove that he’d been the right choice.

“And there’s a girl stood taking pictures in front of Pierre’s nipples,” said Alex, looking out of the window at some tourists snapping selfies with the posters at the front of the opera house.

“It’s really lucky you didn’t get born with a third one or something,” said Max. 

“They’d photoshop that out, surely?” said Pierre, spotting Charles stood near the stage door waiting for him.

Once they’d parked, a few streets away in a residential street that was too nice for them to even have to worry about Max’s car getting keyed, and made their way to the opera house, Pierre had a few notifications from Charles asking where the fuck they were. Charles’ face still lit up with a smile when he caught sight of him though, and Pierre’s heart felt _so_ full at the sight of it.

“How long was he looking for his pass?” Charles asked the others as he handed it to Pierre.

“Half an hour,” said Alex with a sigh as they all went inside.

* * *

The few hours leading up to the performance were a blur for Pierre. Warmup with the rest of the company had flown by, his brain focused on trying to reaffirm the mental map he had of how his body worked, now it had been rested properly and was ready for the strain that was going to be put on it over the rest of the night. 

He’d only been able to have a quick chat with Charles before he was whisked away, and plonked in front of Antonio, with Christian watching carefully from the corner as his hair makeup was done.

“You did it again,” groaned Antonio, carefully starting to style Pierre’s hair into artful swoops and then spraying each piece with enough hairspray to kill a small army as he was done with it.

“What?” asked Pierre, shutting his eyes tight to avoid the upcoming hairspray blast when Antonio reached for the can.

“You got bored and used box bleach again,” said Antonio. “Honestly? You deserve this much hairspray. I thought I told you to call me if it was ever that urgent? I have real bleach and developer Olaplex, you moron.”

Pierre just shrugged. “Getting it done is really boring though. You take ages.”

“I take ages because I do it _correctly_ ,” said Antonio. “Fucks sake. When do you have days off? I’m going to have to colour correct this, so you’re stuck with me taking ages anyway.”

“Tuesday through thursday,” said Pierre, shutting his eyes again as another spray came. 

  
He had to admit, it looked amazing when it was done, and he was also pretty sure he’d be stuck in the shower for a long time tonight to try and get his hair to not be 95% plastic, and then it was onto stage makeup.

“What’s this scar from?” asked Antonio, pushing up the back of Pierre’s shirt and looking at the small scar over one of his vertebrae as he stuck small white jewels all down his spine.

“Car crash when I was 14,” said Pierre, arching slightly to make it easier for Antonio to stick them on. “Some glass got stuck there. Took me out of dance for about a month, and lifting for longer than that.”

“Gross,” said Antonio, applying eyelash glue to another jewel and sticking it over it. “I love that you make a month sound like forever and ever.”

“It is,” defended Pierre. “This whole thing came together in what, four months?” he asked, standing when he was told to so that Antonio could check that Christian approved. He got the nod, and then Pierre was ushered out so Antonio could start on the next person.

“Hey,” grinned Alex, where he was waiting at the doors of the costume department with arms full of garment bags. “Guess who avoided doing quick changes and got stuck making sure the leads don’t fuck up putting their costumes on instead?”

  
“Lucky you,” grinned Pierre. “Did Valtteri decide he’d had enough of supervising me?”

“Yeah. Too much foundation on yours and Charles’ collars whenever you were in a cast together for Romeo and Juliet,” said Alex, rolling his eyes. “You know how difficult it is to get off white silk?” 

“There’s plenty of reasons that might have happened,” said Pierre, following Alex towards the dressing rooms of the leads. “He might have fell. You never know.”

“There was a huge hickey on your neck when you came back after one night he was in the same cast as you, and Valterri was complaining like hell about the collar being orange the next morning. Explain that one,” said Alex, as they reached Pierre’s dressing room. “It was really hard not to tell him, to be honest.”

“He’s still clueless and doesn’t realise then?” grinned Pierre, as he opened the door to his dressing room. There were already an impressive arrangement of roses waiting on his dressing room table, along with a card, and Pierre was _beaming_ when he spotted them.

“He’s obsessed with red, that boy,” sighed Alex fondly, starting to get out Pierre’s first costume. “I’m still shocked his flat isn’t all red everything.”

“It’s a fancy rental. he can’t paint the wall. His landlord actually gives a shit about that,” said Pierre, smiling as he looked at the card.

_“tu seras belle, mon amour. à ce soir x”_

“Thank god ours doesn’t. That yellow colour was fucking disgusting,” said Alex, before starting to help Pierre into his costume.

* * *

Pierre couldn’t help but notice how full the opera house was as he waited in the wings. Charles had got off to an amazing start, easily living up to Sebastian’s choreography, and the corps were dancing their hearts out, and Pierre knew he couldn’t let all of them down.

“You’re going to be fine. Stop making that face,” whispered Lando, draping a huge glittering veil over him when it came time for him to go on, and with that Pierre was left to walk on, taking his place centre stage.

People always talked about dance like it was purely a personal thing, like knowing you’d done a good job was enough, but Pierre thought that the reaction of the audience was the thing that made a performance a _performance_ , and what fed him to dance his best. And he was pretty sure that the audible gasps from the audience as Esteban whipped the veil from over him and revealed him, and the applause that immediately rang out at the sight of him, would feed his dancing for _years_.

He started to dance, trying to entice the audience, to prove to them why he was a dancer, why he was a principal, why someone like _Charles_ would be besotted with someone like _him,_ both on and off stage. It was catching glances with people in the front rows, flirtatious eyes, staying perfectly on beat, staying as cool and fluid as water as he moved, and the applause at the very end of his variation told him that he’d done it. 

He’d proved himself. 

As he went into dancing with Esteban, he couldn’t see how he’d ever confused the looks Charles had given him through their rehearsals for acting. Esteban was a damned good actor, it had always been a strength of his, but even now when he was pretending to confess his love, pretending to beg to be with him, it didn’t hold a candle to how Charles had looked at him. It was easy now to see the difference, now he was starting to see himself as worthy, he guessed.

And the applause just didn’t stop at all once Charles came on and their pas de deux started. Pierre didn’t _have_ to act at all, he could just be in love, and dance with the man he loved, and maybe their relationship was still a secret outside of their circle of friends (they didn’t know how kindly the public and company would take to it, and had mutually decided that waiting until after the show had debuted to start any public displays) but he hoped that the audience could pick up on the fact that he _loved_ this man, whether they thought it was real or not.

“Standing oviation,” Christian whispered to them as they ran off stage, and Pierre could see Charles beaming just as hard as he sure he himself was, if the slight pain in his cheeks was any indication. 

  
“Come on, we need to get ready,” whispered Charles, taking his hand and leading him back up to the dressing rooms. They were in the middle of the stairs when Charles stopped, glancing around before leaning down and held his face as he kissed him.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes before you’re back on,” said Alex in a bored voice, looking over the bannister at the top of the stairs when they separated. “And I’ve got to get both of you dressed, so get your arses up here.”

“Oops,” laughed Pierre, ushering Charles up the stairs in front of him. 

His phone was buzzing with notifications when he reached his dressing room, and he let Alex drag Charles away to get him dressed as he read through them.

**royal opera hoes**

**light of your lives: gayadere is GO**

**baldo: you’re a lucky man looking at charles’ ass out there @ferrari fucker**

**albono: me and george are gonna sneak the back way and come and watch from the light box for a bit see you in a minute**

**light of your lives: like anyone is that fast**

**light of your lives: holy shit they’re actually here already…**

**albono: sorry that you can’t be fast like me x**

**baldo: pierre is doing that stressed look he does sometimes so you have to cheer extra loud for him**

**mad lad russell: it’s a ballet people don’t cheer**

**baldo: well i do**

**light of your lives: AND APPARENTLY THE AUDIENCE DOES TODAY BOYS they love pierre and he hasn’t even done anything yet**

**albono: lando’s ahead of his time**

**baldo: :) i am**

**mad lad russell: zero theatre etiquette out here tonight i love it**

**albono: he isn’t even being sarcastic he’s genuinely buzzing**

**mad lad russell: wtf why would anyone think that’s sarcasm**

**baldo: is he doing as well as i think he is, teach us uncultured swines george**

**mad lad russell: he’s doing AMAZING**

**light of your lives: he’s very into it he’s not even noticed me trying to blind him there has he**

**light of your lives: i’ll see if charles reacts later it’ll be funny**

**albono: will it?**

**mad lad russell: if you do this to me later, i’m gonna kill you**

**light of your lives: you’re in underwear and completely covered in gold body paint, i am so scared**

Pierre grinned, before taking the time to reply.

**ferrari fucker: max i did notice you trying to blind me i just ignored it x**

**ferrari fucker: and thank you lando and george**

* * *

The death scene had been where this whole journey had become, and Pierre knew deep down that it was _his_ scene. It was some of the most challenging adagio work he’d ever had to dance in his life, and it was long, and by the end of it the collapsing bonelessly into Esteban’s arms wasn’t entirely acting because it was exhausting to do, but he also knew that it was stupidly effective, looked beautiful, and was something that could bring the house down.

And fuck, it was. His muscles might have been burning, but Pierre would put up with that forever if it meant getting the reaction he was as he danced his way to his storyline death. He couldn’t hear anything but the orchestra, and he could see the corps’ faces filled with awe as they looked at him, and Charles was somehow managing to hold it together as Pierre pretended to plead with him.

When he lifted the flower basket to his neck, and could hear the little magnet inside the fake snake click against his choker and pop the concealed bag of fake blood hidden behind it, he knew this was it. As he pulled it away, he could hear shocked gasps and a few shouts at the sight of blood starting to drip down his collarbones, and then there was applause, and people standing as he ran around the stage, accusing Cat of causing his death before collapsing into Esteban’s arms, and Charles ran over to stand over him as the curtain fell.

“Shit,” laughed Charles, applause echoing through the opera house as he helped him up and pulled him into a hug. 

“I’m so tired already,” grinned Pierre, wrapping his arms around Charles in return. “It’s only been one act.”

“At least you’ve got half an act off now,” said Charles, and Pierre could feel eyes on them, and with that he took Charles’ hand and led him back up to the dressing rooms.

That was the difficult thing about dancing with Charles - with the Opera House being fairly small, and half of the company crammed into it at a time, it was difficult to get some privacy to actually act on the emotions that Charles made him feel when he danced. There were always people around, and everything was so fast paced during a performance that time alone in a dressing room was probably filled with trying to pull on the next costume, or touch up his hair, or try and quickly knead a knot out of an aching muscle. 

Alex seemed to get it though, turning a blind eye as Pierre tugged Charles into his dressing room and ran his hands over his skin as he kissed him. Charles seemed more than happy to reciprocate, thumbs disappearing under the waistband of his costume, rubbing over his hipbones.

“Okay, break it up,” sighed Alex as he knocked on the door after a few minutes. “Before Christian kills me for not telling him where you are. He’s on edge enough.”

* * *

Pierre was running on pure adrenaline by the time the end of the ballet came, and he doubted he’d have the energy for much with Charles except for a shower and passing out.

  
It had worked the first time he’d stayed over at his flat, he guessed, so maybe that wouldn’t be too bad.

“Almost there,” sighed Charles in relief, taking one end of the long piece of chiffon Lando passed him while Pierre took the other. “I’m sure it wasn’t this tiring in rehearsals.”

Then it was their cue, and Pierre went out, climbing up the fallen temple as elegantly as he could while leading Charles along with the chiffon, until he was stood at the top of the wreckage and Charles was looking up at him from the bottom, surrounded by an absurd amount of smoke.

When the music hit the final note, and they both dropped the chiffon, the Opera House _roared_ with applause, loud enough that Pierre had to concentrate on the rounded pillar beneath his feet to not let the shock of the noise make him fall off. He beamed at Charles when the curtain dropped though, climbing off the pillar as quickly as possible and rushing to wrap his arms around him as they headed back to the wings for their final bow.

The audience were on their feet for the entire company’s bows, but the sound when Pierre came out left his ears ringing, and made the stage vibrate, and there were a _stupid_ amount of flowers thrown at him, and if he could bottle that moment he’d have grabbed every bottle in London, because he never wanted it to leave him. He felt on top of the world, and Charles was next to him, and he thought that this must be what heaven must have been like.

Okay, maybe heaven didn’t have Max deliberately flickering lights in his eyes, but he knew that this was just Max’s way of saying he was proud, to be honest. 

Pierre gave Daniil a wink as the company applauded the orchestra, and looked up to try and see Max and Kimi as they applauded the lighting, and he could see Alex and Lando and Antonio in the wings as they applauded the crew, and then there was a nudge from next to him as Charles passed him a huge bouquet (honestly, the flat was going to smell _ridiculous_ with the amount of flowers he’d got tonight) and then the curtain was down, and it was over.

Four long months of rehearsals and stress and choreography and trying to figure himself out was over - well not over, there were still months of performances to come, and a tour of the production after that, but the first hurdle had been crossed now, the first performance was done, and it had gone beyond his wildest dreams. 

  
They’d nailed it.

“Holy fucking shit,” laughed Charles, when they’d left the Opera House and were away from prying eyes in his Ferrari. “We actually did it.”

“I don’t know where the last few hours actually went, to be honest,” laughed Pierre, because it was a blur now, one he knew he’d be able to pick apart later and go through, but for now he just didn’t have the mental capacity.

“I’m so fucking tired,” said Charles, moving a hand to rest it on Pierre’s thigh as he drove.

“Morning sex then?” asked Pierre.

“Morning sex,” laughed Charles.


	31. Chapter 31

La Bayere had flown by - maybe it was that overall, Pierre had less performances to do since he was only having to perform a single role, or maybe it was all the changes that had happened since the start, or maybe it was the way that it tired him out enough that he’d end up sleeping the next day away meaning that he’d probably missed a month purely in extra sleep.

It really didn’t feel like four months before they had their final curtain call in London, and the next day they stood on the pavement outside their flat at 4am, waiting for a taxi to the airport.

“I don’t get why we can’t just fucking drive down,” groaned Max, sitting on a wall next to Dan as they waited. “It’s only France. It’s what, five hours?”

“Because we’ve got a shitload of places after France. Where are you going to leave the car?” asked Alex, engagement ring glittering in the morning light as he rubbed at his eyes. 

  
“Pierre’s parents’ house,” said Max. “I don’t fucking know.”

“France is a big country. My parents’ house isn’t down the road from the places we’re going. Plus parking around there is shit,” sighed Pierre sitting on his bigger suitcase, and Charles wrapped his arms around his shoulders from behind and let his face sink into his neck and Pierre could feel his eyelashes brush against his skin as his eyes closed. 

Pierre didn’t feel too bad for being exhausted then, Charles had always been more of a morning person than him. 

“Thank God for that,” said Daniil as a minivan taxi pulled up, and they all piled into the back after putting their suitcases into the boot. The minivan quickly became quiet, everyone taking the opportunity to get half an hour of shut eye in before they had to deal with airport security. Charles’ head dropped back onto Pierre’s shoulder, and he pressed a kiss into his hair before leaning back into the seat and letting his eyes close. 

They’d only grown closer over the past few months, especially since they’d gone public with their relationship. Christian and Toto had taken it far better than Pierre had expected, really, they hadn’t said anything much when he’d said his preference was to room with Charles over anyone else. He thought Christian might have actually smirked. And it was nice to be able to go and do normal things with Charles now, to be able to stick pictures of them all over instagram that weren’t just work pictures, of their dates and of when Charles would wake up early and Pierre would catch him using his chest of drawers as a ballet barre to warm up before an early morning gym session, and just stupid pictures that he’d take of Charles. He was pretty much Pierre’s muse by now. 

George, Lando, Antonio and Esteban were already waiting in the terminal when they reached the airport and went through security. Lando and Esteban were curled up on a bench trying to get another hour of shut eye in (Pierre was relieved that they’d told everyone else about their relationship now - there weren’t so many impromptu meetings backstage that he seemed to have a knack for walking in on), and George immediately went to capture Alex’s lips in a kiss.

Alex had proposed the night that George had been promoted to principal, towards the end of the run of shows at the Opera House. He’d picked his own engagement ring out, and Pierre had been pretty sure that proposals were meant to involve giving the _other_ person the ring, but it kind of fit that Alex had just made George stick the glittering ring back on him instead. Alex had even been speaking about potentially moving out of the flat, trying to get somewhere with George, and as weird as it felt that their flat might not be the four of them anywhere, Pierre couldn’t help but be happy for him.

He’d been spending more time at Charles’, splitting his time 50-50 between there and the flat. Most of the time, Charles was with him when he was at the flat though, taking full advantage of Dan having basically moved in to get free physio advice without having to bother speaking to Dr Marko. Max really didn’t know how useful he’d been by getting into a relationship with someone who made it easy to bypass Helmut.

Pierre yawned as he sat down next to Charles, shifting to lay down on the bench and rest his head on his lap. 5am was way too early for him, especially when he’d only finished performing last night at 10pm. Nobody could blame him for having a good nap, could they?

* * *

Pierre had been nervous to meet Charles’ family. Sure, he’d already met Arthur, and he’d said hi to Lorenzo when Charles had phone calls with him on speakerphone, but that was _different_. Maybe they’d think (like a tiny bit of him still did - therapy hadn’t quite ironed it out entirely yet) that he wasn’t good enough for Charles.

He really hadn’t needed to worry though, because Pascale Leclerc (he had the feeling that both his and Charles’ mums having the same name was going to cause confusion somewhere along the way) immediately wrapped her arms around him when they’d met for the first time before their performance in Lyon, and that was that - straight away the entire family had accepted him, and were trying to embarrass Charles by making it clear how much of a sap he’d been when he’d spoken about him to them. 

Later that evening, Charles borrowed one of Lorenzo’s cars (and Pierre definitely wasn’t going to tell Max that there were more Ferraris in that family) and set out on a drive towards a cemetery that Pierre had only ever been to with Esteban after the funeral. He and Charles had decided it was important to do while they were here, while they were in Antoine’s home city. Pierre’s therapist had agreed.

  
Anthoine would have never wanted to haunt him. It wasn’t fair of Pierre’s brain to be making him do so. He was his friend, and gradually it had been getting easier for Pierre to say that out loud. He’d managed to take his pictures with Anthoine out of the small envelope where he’d kept them, and had gradually been adding them into the huge mass of pictures of his friends, the guilt over him finally fading enough for him to have him and Anthoine together on his wall. 

Charles had been particularly proud when he’d spotted them, had held him close and told him so. It wasn’t him being fixed, but it was progress to get to that point, and they both knew that. 

That was why Charles waited in the car at first, while Pierre went over to Anthoine’s grave with a bunch of flowers on his own.

“Hey,” he said quietly, crouching down and laying the flowers down carefully. He’d never spoken to Anthoine when he’d come here with Esteban, they’d stand in silence instead, but now he’d started speaking to Anthoine at other times it felt natural to do it here. 

He’d started thinking that Anthoine would actually want to hear some of his thoughts sometimes now. Voicing them was actually helping - when he was on his own and thinking of Anthoine, it helped not having to shove what he was thinking down. Letting it go into the air was a relief, whether Anthoine heard it or not. His therapist said it was normal, part of the grieving process he should have been allowed to go through years ago, so he was sticking with it.

“Your mum texted me. She said she’s going to come tonight, I got her some tickets,” said Pierre. “Hopefully I can give her a good performance. I’ve done Gayadere enough times now, you know? They’re gonna put a tribute to you in the programme, me and Esteban both asked so they’re doing it. They’re going to use that picture from concours that you loved and me and Esteban both hated, because you looked great and we looked shit. We both agreed that was the right one.”

And from there on, he rambled, talking about anything and everything he could think Anthoine might want to hear. He told him about Charles, and how he’d never been happier, and how he was getting somewhere with his therapy, and how Max had tried to throw him in the Seine when they’d performed in Paris last week because he’d caught him and Dan putting a love lock on a bridge - because this wasn’t a visit for penance like it had felt like with Esteban, this was him spending time with his _friend_ , and this was the type of shit he’d tell his friend in any other situation.

He texted Charles when he felt ready to have company, and Charles was at his side within a few minutes, laying down another bouquet, and Charles spoke to Anthoine for a short while too, which made Pierre feel way more normal. 

And when it felt right, they both stood up, gave Anthoine’s gravestone a kiss, and then made their way back to the car.

* * *

“Do you think this ivory, or this ivory?” asked Alex between acts, showing Pierre fabric swatches between acts.

“You’re the one with an actual education in this,” sighed Pierre, but he pointed to the one he liked better anyway, before bursting out laughing as Charles nearly took out one of the mirrors when he stumbled getting his tights for his next costume on. 

“I thought you were meant to have good balance? Isn’t that your entire thing?” sighed Alex, going over to help him. 

“My entire thing is balance, yeah,” said Charles, rolling his eyes. “Pick the other one to what Pierre picked, since he laughed at me.”

“I was going to anyway,” said Alex, and Pierre threw a ballet shoe at his head.

“I thought you said you were going to be super nice to me today?” pouted Pierre. 

“Why would I ever say that?” asked Alex, humming.

“Because I got you and George that restaurant reservation for after the performance tonight. Honestly, the amount of begging I had to do, I even had to pretend to cry,” said Pierre.

“I feel like we’re getting exploited because we speak french today. Max made me reserve a ton of shit for him and Dan,” said Charles. 

“They’re uncultured and don’t speak the best language in the world. It’s basically charity work for the less fortunate,” sighed Pierre, earning Alex throwing the ballet shoe back at him once he’d got Charles into his costume.

“Well your act is going to be up when me and George turn up and don’t speak shit,” grinned Alex. “They’re going to have to put up with google translate and pointing at the menu.”

“Make sure you ask for _grosse bite juteuse_. It’s a really special regional thing for Lyon,” said Pierre, catching the way Charles’ eyes lit up behind him. “It won’t be on the menu. It’s a french thing.”

“Of course the french wouldn’t just put things on a menu and make you ask for it instead,” said Alex, sighing.

* * *

“He got me to ask for big juicy cock,” groaned Alex, laying on one of the benches in the airport the next morning as they waited to board their flight to Italy.

“So did you get offered it or not?” asked Pierre interestedly, Charles laughing next to him. He even caught Esteban smirking where he was sat with Lando. “Can’t believe you actually took me seriously.”

“He thought he was super cultured,” laughed George, ruffling Alex’s hair and sitting down to let him rest his head in his lap. “He even threw a s'il vous plaît in there, really went all out. And then the poor girl who was serving us had to explain what he’d just said.”

“I hope you tipped the fuck out of her,” said Max, cackling away in the corner. “Jesus christ, imagine some English dickhead asking you for dick. Great job Pierre.”

“Thanks,” grinned Pierre, looking up at the departure board.

They had a long tour ahead, but with these guys around him, he’d be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to come shout on me on tumblr @pierregasiy


End file.
